


metered

by fingersfallingupwards



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Body Worship, Canon Era, Character Study, Dom John, Dom Paul, Dom-Drop, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Fluff and Angst, John Lennon's messed-up head, Kink as Character Study, Kinks, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Praise Kink, Restraints, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual & Non-Sexual BDSM, Smut, Sub John, Sub Paul, Sub-Drop, Subspace, Warm & Human BDSM, but some, mostly-, thigh worship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24038440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingersfallingupwards/pseuds/fingersfallingupwards
Summary: "The bloke said something just the same as you did, about floating off unless tied down, or maybe it was the other way around, getting tied down to float off, y'know.”-OR: Canon-era John and Paul haphazardly invent BDSM, and learn a few things about power, surrender, pleasure, and themselves along the way
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 173
Kudos: 204





	1. Crush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlimited thanks go to my betas: weall-love-ina-yellow-submarine and johnjie !~ Ya'll are illustrious and I love you.
> 
> **Don't read this story if you are underage. Even if you are familiar with extremely sexual situations, the mental and emotional aspects are twisted and mature. Please.**

+

Now that he’s older, John will own up that it was a series of accidents that became less so.

The first time it happened, neither John nor Paul really understood what _had_ happened.

They were drinking at a bar in Liverpool. The cheapness of the spot meant anyone’s shilling was good enough, including John and Paul’s, and in the end John wasn’t far off from being of age. He looked it now, at least as much as the rest of the Quarrymen did— excluding Paul. The curve of Paul’s face was still sweet, untempered by the quiff he’d teased into his hair. 

They let Paul in anyroad. He was never the problem. 

John was the problem. At the start of the night, he’d be smooth, charming, and easy. He’d chat up the owner and they’d near forget what had happened when the drink had gotten to him last time. Later, they’d remember when John riled, snapping and aching for a fight. He’d whet his knuckles against any tender flesh; a flash of vulnerability, and the clever crafty words that made him a riot at the beginning of the night would sharpen into lancing malignancy.

The Quarrymen had been turned away from a couple places already tonight, and Colin had muttered about running out of clubs to drink at, let alone play.

But fuck them. Fuck it all. Julia, his daft whore of a mum, had. She’d fucked it all up, and then down too, because Nigel’d seen the accident, had said she’d flown through the air before hitting the ground. The image chased John whenever he shut his eyes. Over and over— THUD the car THUD the ground THUD his hands bruised, and rinse. Inside him there was an unmetered ocean that boiled and blurred beach sand into mixed, shattered glass. It clattered busily through his ears with the rising pump of his blood and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t even see the boiling point. He tried to set it off himself these days; that way, it at least felt like control. Something to hold onto in all this waste.

Tonight, he was in rare form, tearing into some bloke reading Greats at the college. John would be damned if he let this prissy swine leave without bloodying his pressed collar.

The lads were around him. The first time, months ago, they’d cheered and joined in, but now most of them looked away or kept their eyes to their dates and just let John finish. John wasn’t ever finished. Something was building, growing, and he didn’t know what until he felt hands pull against his jacket and he reeled off balance. He swung back, expecting the bloke’s mates, but his bleary eyes fell upon Paul and the red flush suffusing his pale face.

“You’ve had enough,” Paul said, and there was a snap to his voice: different and too brave. John’s lips twisted.

“No, I really haven’t.” Blood eased down his face, warm and wet from his split lip; he licked it, grinning at the uneasy way Paul tracked the movement. All the lads were watching now, but not a one spoke. “Have something to say about it?”

“He didn’t mean it, did he?” Paul said.

As if John ever knew what set the oceans boiling or was capable of forgiving someone for it. Getting his fingers around Paul’s jacket and hauling him forward felt good. Hands were reaching for him then, Paul’s and Colin’s.

“If you’re scrapping with mates you're done here, John Lennon!” the owner called, eyes heavy on them. “The two of you are out for the night.”

The bouncer arrived then, a thick meaty lad, and John wasn’t about to throw himself into a wall, not when he had someone so much softer to aim at.

His teeth flashed. “Jealous I was giving all my hard loving to someone else, Paulie? Need some attention, do ye?” The rest of the Quarrymen laughed, and John made a show of waving them off. “Enjoy the evening, lads. I’ll see if we can’t get me biggest fan an autograph.”

Beneath the owner’s attention, Paul could do little more than flush further and tremble in anger as they were escorted out onto the street. A new thrill shot through John as he eyed Paul through the dim lighting. He’d had it out with all the lads before in their years of knowing each other, but he hadn’t gotten Paul yet, Paul who was smooth stone where John ran coarse, restrained where John lashed out. They’d never traded pain before, and John was suddenly hungry for it.

“You’re such a bloody bastard, John!” Paul cursed. “Sometimes I—”

“You’re not half that, even still.”

Paul edged near him, and the wild something in John’s heart must be catching, because he saw the same bleary ire churning in Paul’s eyes. Just a bit more. John said, “You’re going to have to give me some space so I can pull out me pen.”

He grinned as Paul shoved him. Accepting the invitation, he swung his fist up into soft stomach. Paul reeled back, eyes dim and furious. Never could stand being talked down to, could Paul. Still brimming with mad glee at finally getting a swing in, John wasn’t ready for Paul’s fierce plow into him, and was reminded of the height Paul had garnered lately as they stumbled into the alley. From there it was scraping, scrambling hands, elbows and knocking their heads and faces into the brick and each other.

Paul had drunk far less, and John realized it when he overextended and Paul pushed him forward. In a flash John felt a weight on his back, a hand pressing down on his neck, shoving his face in the brick. His legs scrabbled beneath him, but he was too drunk to maneuver for any leverage.

“Stay down, John!” Paul snapped, a growl lacing his voice.

He thrashed more, then tried for a witty line, but his voice was muffled against the floor and Paul’s grip remained steady.

“Stay down!”

John writhed and struggled but he felt disoriented and even weaker now. His vision was dark, hair matted around him to block off the dim light filtering from the street. Fingers dug into his neck and he felt hyperaware of the grip holding him down like a common dog. Thrill chased around the thought, horrible and altogether wonderful, like the first time riding the helter-skelter as a child, shrieking down the slope and uncertain of the end.

“Stay, John.” The words were growled, _telling_ , not asking, and something in him… slackened. John let his muscles fail him as he panted.

“There’s a good lad,” Paul said. John half-lurched in defiance, but Paul’s grip held, and he subsided again into stillness. He breathed in the dark, feeling his own exhale against his cheek as Paul’s steady weight bore down on him.

It was quiet down here, on the ground. Little by little, the tension slipped out beneath the press of Paul’s body and the smothering darkness. John’s eyelids dragged and he forgot the club, his mother, and the whole world outside of this dark place as his sensations narrowed on Paul’s anchoring weight and the ridges of Paul’s fingers. 

“That’s it, Johnny,” Paul said, and this time John didn’t fight. Paul kept muttering, his voice a soft rasp against the velvet darkness, vocalizing his approval and pleasure. John’s lips twitched but were without reply. It didn’t frighten him like he thought it might, the words not flowing. It felt reassuring… there wasn’t anything that needed saying when Paul had him so tightly in his grip. It was like he’d been pinwheeling through the air for months, but now suddenly was caught and held. He didn’t need to move or talk or be witty or sad. He was floating somewhere above all that.

Paul’s thumb began stroking the nape of his neck and pleasure unfurled in John’s over-light head. The only input he felt was the drag of thumb over him and the sound of Paul’s breathing. They’d synced up and there was only one breath, just the one of them in the dark. For the first time the ocean fell still, and the world shrank until it felt comprehensible and small.

A low sound escaped his throat and the thumb rubbing up the grain of his neck hair stilled. He let out another sound, a whine deep from his chest from loss as the breath above him shuddered and then diverged from his own.

“John?”

Suddenly the weight removed itself and John raised his head, blinking against the too-bright dimness of the alley. Paul was collapsed against the wall, eyes darting between John and his own trembling hands. Paul was young again, not the monolith that held John’s soul in his body. 

“I’m-I’m sorry,” Paul stuttered. “I didn’t mean to… Sorry.”

John tried to lever himself up, feeling disjointed, tongue still heavy and marveling at the alien quietness of his mind. Whatever ire he felt before had vanished, and in his slowly resettling mind he started filtering through Paul’s words.

“You’re fine,” John managed at length, standing only to find it much higher up than he remembered. Paul blinked up at him, wet-eyed as John extended his hands. Paul took each in his own and stood up. They wavered there a moment, staring too closely. Though it was barely lit, he could make out Paul, and he gathered that neither of them understood what had happened. Part of John felt bewildered, but it was edged more with awe than fear and he leaned into it, sighing.

The smile, when John quirked it, felt soft with something forgotten. “Come ‘ead then, Macca.”

Paul’s jaw eased with relief and he smiled back.

+

On the bus, John dozed off, head knocking against Paul’s shoulder. When he woke, disorientation spun his mind as he was struck with sudden unsettlement about what had happened. He remembered the way he’d given Paul so much power, let himself be exposed for Paul to grip and pet. What kind of bloke _did_ that? His face itched and he sobered enough to feel the dirt on his chin with a building shame and nausea.

Paul noticed his waking peripherally and eyed him. He murmured, “It’s only me, Johnny.” His fingers, peeking from beneath his crossed arms, fluttered against John’s ribs. It was tickly, gentle; so much like Paul.

The hair rising on John’s arms dropped. Paul couldn’t hurt him, John thought. Only Paul had seen. Only Paul… John resettled and drifted off again. When he dreamt of his mother, she only ever went up.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> Thank you for giving this a shot 💜! The smut starts next chapter and barely stops after.
> 
> For anyone unfamiliar with sub-space or dom-space feel free to check out some additional resources in this link to [ my primer! ](https://fingersfallingupwards.dreamwidth.org/1068.html)
> 
> This fic is 80% complete! I will update twice a week so we can wrap this up in a neat month with change!
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Please leave a comment if you want to❣️


	2. Crushing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers a few things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a little smut!
> 
> Gentle reminder that this fic does deal with sub-drop to varying extents.
> 
> A long, proud shout-out to my beta johnjie!

+

The following morning, John awoke to dim recollections of the previous evening. He mulled them over in the early hours, reliving the odd peace and surrender of Paul’s weight on him with building embarrassment. He’d been drunk, he reminded himself. Wasn’t his fault Paul had gotten the drop on him and shoved him down, and it must’ve been the tingle of ale that made him feel light and other-worldly…even now he couldn’t parse the sensation into words. The language, which often floated and twisted in his head, wouldn’t form. He only knew it was new and elating, and that a section of himself ached to curl into the memory until he could feel as safe and in and out of control as he’d felt last night. A larger part of him snarled and shoved the sensation to a far-back corner of his mind, where he wouldn’t have to think about laying down for a bloke to step on.

Christ, but he was losing it.

John grumbled and turned on his side, away from the brightening window.

Mothers dying would do that, John decided. He shifted his mind from Julia to dwell on Paul and his own dead mam. Perhaps that was the reason Paul’d acted the way he had, too; unusually forward. John oughtn’t hold it against him, but what if Paul said something about it to the lads? John hadn’t been at his best last night. Paul might just see it as some gag to tease about, instead of… instead of whatever nebulous thing was crawling around John’s mind like a cleansing ache.

He kicked his sheets away in a fit of energy and pulled at the nearest shirt on the floor. He needed some bloody air.

The morning walk didn’t help. He nearly rowed with Mimi about his bruised face during breakfast. The morning post interrupted them and John slipped out the back for his second walk. He couldn’t help it; he felt tangled and knotty inside, edgy in a way cigarettes couldn’t help. He tried to tell himself there wasn’t anything that had happened that Paul could use against him, but the argument struck hollow in his stomach. He knew it was important; knew that Paul sensed it too, from the way he had trembled after. 

John twitched his way through the whole day until band practice at Colin’s place. John was the first there, followed by Eric, then Len, and finally Paul.

Strangely, Paul didn’t look any different, still sweet-faced and droopy-eyed, and John wasn’t sure why he had expected him to. Paul’s eyes flicked over John for a moment, tilting his head enough to reveal the bruise lurking in the shadow of his cheek. With John’s split lip and bruised nose he thought they made quite the pair.

“Oh, hard loving was it?” Eric grinned. John wanted to shrink from the joke, couldn’t handle the thought of egging Paul on until he told them how much John Lennon had enjoyed the alleyway floor. Despite all his morning anxiety, now in the moment he couldn’t find the brakes to stop himself. There was no remedy to John stepping down in front of anyone, let alone the members of his band. Certainly not Paul, two years younger.

“Only the best for me biggest fan,” John sneered. He watched a faint flush color Paul and felt his own body tense, adrenaline surging. He wasn’t sure whether it was wiser to run or pounce, whether his fist was faster than Paul’s lips— 

Paul’s eyes on him softened and he made a short, irritated sound. “We won’t have any fans until we find more band members,” he said. “This bloke John Lowe isn’t bad on piano, and there’s George to consider.”

Breath he hadn’t realized he was holding left John’s lungs. Paul looked around the group and when their gazes met again, he saw only the lad he’d known for a year. Safe as houses, John thought. The pressure dogging his temples all morning released. He’d known that already, hadn’t he? He sucked in a new breath.

“We’ve considered him already. Give it a rest, Macca. How old’s this John Lowe?” John asked.

“A better question would be how’s his playing,” Paul said.

“Not when you’re doing the inviting.” Len shot back.

John laughed with Eric and Colin. A smile quirked his lips, wide and near bursting, stretched apart by relieved butterflies he couldn’t quite swallow back into his stomach. Of course Paul wouldn’t do him like that. Not Paul.

They slipped into the rhythm of band practice, which ended up being lousy but fun. Maybe it was the shock of relief or the odd calmness of his mind, but John couldn’t stop quipping and fiddling with nearby junk, putting on a right show for everyone. Practice was easy and clear in a way it hadn’t been for a while, and all the lads were pulled into his shenanigans. One bit sent Paul so far into stitches that he laughed himself off his makeshift seat and got them all started again. They’d hardly played two full songs by the time they were winding down, and John had almost forgotten about the night before for the giddiness in his chest.

Len leaned down from his place on the tea-chest bass. “Got you pretty well, didn’t he?” he said. “Didn’t expect it from him.”

John’s eyes darted to Paul and Colin, talking some technique over the drums for some daft ditty. He looked back to Len and a witty retort about Allerton boys died on his lips when he saw Len gesturing about his throat and collar.

John’s hand flew up and found sudden pain from a tender bruise. Several bruises. From Len’s higher perspective he could see down his collar, see something John himself couldn’t. Paul’d left _marks_ _._ Shock and thrill chased John. His neck had hurt this morning, but he hadn’t realized…

He reached up again to touch them and made the mistake of meeting Paul’s heavy-lidded eyes. The memory reappeared from where he’d exiled it and bloomed technicolor; Paul’s hands taking hold, his body pressing, shoving John’s down with strength. Stroking until John had keened.

Impossibly, John believed Paul must know every last wisp of John’s thoughts, must be reliving it too… maybe even enjoying it. Embarrassment and squirming heat near knocked his legs out from under him.

“Yeah,” he said, pulling his gaze away with effort. “Listen, I have to head back. Mimi needs… I have to go.”

Paul looked over as he called out his departure, and the new weight of his eyes made John feel flushed and heady. Did he know? He must; yet he couldn’t.

He raced home, speeding through the gardens and back paths until he was safe in his room, near slamming the door in his haste for privacy. Mimi called up to him, but he ignored her, moving his drawers in front of the door and then stripping his shirt.

His hand raised and trembled as he felt the flesh of his neck until… oh, there they were, five aching indents along his neck, four on one side and the thumb on the other. He twisted around to see them but could only catch sight of half at a time. The thumb stood out especially starkly, and something about seeing them made him feel weak and trembly, heady with that same inexplicable sensation from last night. He pressed harder and he was back in the alley, Paul on him, putting him down in the dirt. He wallowed in the memory.

A soft sound scraped over his throat and he startled when he realized the crawling thrill had translated into his cock hardening in his trousers. John dropped his hand, stunned. It wasn’t anything hot, getting held down like a dog, not like the blonde birds he saw around town. So why…?

With reluctant curiosity, he raised his hand again and pressed down harder than before. Alone it didn’t do that much for him, but when he remembered Paul with his new jacket rustling, those fine hands squeezing submission from him, the ensuing praise… John shuddered as his cock raised to a full stand.

“Christ.”

No, he didn’t understand it, but he was beyond trying to think while hard. John kicked his trousers off and climbed into bed. He tried laying on his back, but he found himself twisting onto his front to get full access to the sweet, aching indents on his skin. He bent his knees and pressed himself down into the pillow with his eyes closed, twisting his arm to map out the hot swell of each bruise. He imagined all over again that the hand was Paul’s, those quick and long fingers that so expertly worked a guitar fretboard now on his neck. He moaned as his cock rocked and pressed into the bed.

Words spilled from his mouth, just that hint rougher, the way Paul had done them. “Down, Johnny, stay down.” Saying them aloud was intensely embarrassing, but the sensation got mixed somehow, twisting hot along his nerves.

Beads of precome smeared up and down his sheets and he let out a stifled moan. His free hand wandered down to join the movement and he thought of Paul today. Did he know the effect he’d had? That John was curling up on himself, panting and shamefully hard from the memory? It felt possible that he’d seen the prints he’d left all over John’s skin and John imagined him smiling, hand coming to cuff John’s neck, crooning, “There’s a good lad.”

John bucked and then spilled desperately in sticky, hot spirals. He panted into his pillow for a moment before rolling to his side, looking at the right mess he’d made of his sheets at two in the bleeding afternoon while thinking of his mate.

No, John didn’t want to pursue that thought any further. So he didn’t.

(Except sometimes at night, long after the bruises had faded.)

+

John sought to bury the event, and he was willing, too. Even still, the fantasy of Paul’s hands gripping him would descend upon him any stressful night, regardless. Sometimes he got off on the memory, and other times he just floated there, trying to bask in the sensation that made him feel so within and without, unmet by anything that came before. It was a precious space; but the more time passed, the more John felt that he must have had something dropped in his drink that night, it felt so surreal and impossible in daylight. Mere whimsy, that was, the possibility of sheer serenity.

In the waking world, he scrapped with lads throughout Liverpool, but Paul never got physically involved in stopping John again. Instead, the younger boy honed his words and persuasion, learning that getting a laugh from John did a better turn than any confrontation. Sometimes John caught himself watching Paul’s hands, eyeing their dexterous, calloused strength. He’d think about them wrapped around the front of him instead of the back…

It didn’t stop there. Something about being pushed around and forced low fed a flame in his stomach. Now that he’d tasted it, he couldn’t stop his growing fantasies; being held down and demeaned crept into his daydreams like a trickle of chilled water, dampening the corners of his already perverse imaginings and leaving everything a shade darker. Even Brigitte took a new tone; she made a real picture of it, demanding, hip cocked, black boots marking up his back…

He could imagine it with anyone, but his mind often tripped onto dark lashes, hazel eyes, competent hands. With the rest, he imagined fighting and being pushed down, which usually sent him over the edge. With Paul though, John could almost imagine giving in to him, just to see a pleased, smug grin curl over his face. In the fantasy, Paul always wanted the gift John gave —expected it, really— and the humiliation he felt from Paul’s smirk was downright erotic. It didn’t help that Paul was growing into himself every day, becoming braver, more self-possessed in his way with the birds. It was attractive, that confidence. John could sort of understand why the birds went for it, after a fashion.

John tried to steer towards the kind of deviancy he could make peace with, and that meant blondes that would dirty their stockings, French women, short skirts, and an occasional bit about leather. It helped that they were in Hamburg now, and the birds, the lads, the businessmen— all of them were deviants. John felt like they just might get on all right.

Hamburg was great even when it was horrible because horribleness seemed fitting in the place. They were taking prellies to stay awake and drinking to come back down, and they saw more of the eerie early morning world than John had ever known existed, but it was good. They were playing and making progress in their sound and working the crowd. Besides, he hated the thought of crawling back home and feeling stuck in a between, stagnating place. That knowledge wasn’t always enough though, not when things were tilting and John was wondering how long exactly they’d be on this godforsaken strip.

He was there tonight, mixing uppers and downers with the “all rights” and looking at Paul’s left hand, not even knowing what exactly he wanted from it. He was spinning out hard, not going anywhere and tasting it bitter in the back of his throat. The ocean was rising again, so he scrapped with someone, at a different club than the Kaiserkeller, someone big who he could throw his skull into. People were shouting at him but his ears were pumping too loud. The bloke didn’t even speak his language and John was beyond words, simply feral and relishing each snap of it. He didn’t realize his own trajectory until he felt people trying to pull him off the bloke and felt hands wrapping around his chest, heaving him away.

Paul’s scent flushed his lungs: leather, sweat, and musk. Pale arms that hadn’t seen the sun for months wrapped around his elbows and pulled him away from whoever. John found himself interested in the way they looked ringed around him. He relaxed, and Paul relaxed too, thinking it was over. It wasn’t what John needed, so he twitched and writhed again, feeling relieved when Paul tightened his grip again.

“Come on, then,” Paul said, dragging him back, away from the crowd. John fought, nearly slamming his head into Paul’s nose as Paul negotiated with the bouncer. “Just had a bit too much, we’re —Christ— we’re on our way now.”

Paul heaved them into a hallway. They were almost at the exit when John’s feet gained too much traction and the pair of them were sent into the wall, and then the floor. A stunned exhale brushed John’s ear from Paul beneath him, but he grinned at how Paul had caught him. Both of them were too drunk to feel the pain, and John made overtures towards escape that had Paul squeezing about his ribcage again.

It was good, better than the too-looseness of his bones earlier, and he yanked forward, trying to intensify the restraining sensation.

“Christ, John, you’re frothing like a dog tonight,” Paul said. “How much did you take?”

John keened and reeled back, but he was losing his energy quickly and he felt the strange elated buzzing creeping. It was good, but no matter how he tried leaning into the sensation it wasn’t enough, nowhere near as intense as the time in the alley.

“Christ, Macca, can’t you make it any tighter?” he demanded, and he could almost sense Paul’s incredulous expression. There was a beat where John scrambled for some levity or offhanded cruelty to reclaim the moment, but then Paul’s hands pulled and hooked, and John could only manage a cut-off gasp.

“How’s this, then?” Paul murmured into his ear. Blessedly, John couldn’t see Paul, didn’t have to look into his eyes and see the disgust there. Instead, he focused on the tight, crushing grip cutting the circulation off in his arms and forcing his ribcage still. He couldn’t inhale all the way, and the short, metered breaths he could manage had him tipping his head back into Paul’s chest and sighing with lightheaded pleasure. Caught at last.

It was better, better all over.

The band had started another set, but John didn’t hear music, only the sound Paul’s breath made rustling through his hair.

“What’s all this about?” Paul asked, his voice equal parts bewilderment and quiescence.

John took a short breath, not wanting to interrupt the growing haze, but also feeling capable of truth because of it. “Have you ever felt that you needed to be held down?” John asked. “Like you’d float off otherwise?”

A soft sound vibrated in Paul’s chest, shaking John with it.

“Is that what I’m doing now?” Paul asked, after a small pause.

“I don’t really know how it goes meself,” John whispered, and then had to suck burning air to make up the deficit. His head was lolling, and even if Paul could see him, John didn’t have to see Paul see him.

“Do y—"

A door down the hallway opened. John felt Paul startle beneath him, and then loosen his grip. The rush a full breath gave John was elevating, even as Paul maneuvered John off his lap and pulled himself up. People were passing by, workers at the club pricking their bubble of safety, and John felt like an exposed lightbulb, dangling with his worst thoughts spilling over his glass face.

His vision was cut off as Paul leaned over and put a hand on the wall, half crowding him. “Too much to drink this time, I think, lost track with the dancing,” he said, a muddle of nonsense for other people, but John curved into the shade cast over him, blocking attention from the people hustling by. He caught his breath, seeing the edges of his vision solidify again.

When the hallway was empty again, Paul straightened and stared, but John found himself unable to lock gazes after all that had happened.

Fuck, but he’d lost his grip again. John stood, hands patting the fronts of his coat for a cigarette. His fingers shook lighting it and he hated the concerned way Paul hung over him, like a pall over his rapidly draining good mood. Now that it was over, he felt empty and disgusting again. Bad enough to want to be held like a child, but to tell Paul about it? Madness. Cold air chased down the hallway, and John felt the sweat drop into a chill all over his body.

Paul was all awkward kindness and warm hands, and the gentleness was too much.

“John—"

“Piss off!” John spat. Instinct had him legging it to some strange corner of the city where Paul wouldn’t follow.

He waited out dawn, chain smoking and running the whole mess of what he’d alluded to over and over in his mind until he was nauseous and gagging. At six am, he returned to their shared room. Not daring to look at the slope of Paul’s sleeping figure, he got into bed and turned to the wall. His heart ached cold and small, a wrenching in his chest.

It was the beer, the drugs, he reasoned anxiously. But he knew it wasn’t. It was him, some flaw inside John that ached all over for Paul to crush him into degrading stillness. His fingers dug into his arms like the pain would ground him. 

John just didn’t understand himself sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Thank you for reading! It couldn't be SO easy with John at the helm here. We'll see if Paul keeps any of it in his head. Next chapter is a long one (and an important one for the tags) so I'll see ya'll in four days!
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for all the support so far. I've been blown away❣️~ Do leave a comment to support/if you feel like it💜


	3. Crushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Shea, things escalate. John needs a certain release.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More than infinite respect and appreciation for my beta, johnjie, and her groove! Ya'll don't even know.
> 
> Please read the tags.

+

They didn’t talk about it. Paul tried in one quiet moment, but John had seen the look in his eye and given him such a glare that Paul’s mouth had thinned and shut before nary a word was spoken. Just like that, Paul left it in the club whose name John’d already forgotten, and John had to admit that was why Paul alone was trustworthy with the knowledge.

“Only Paul,” he’d whisper to himself when disgust crawled from his throat to live in his head. It became something of a mantra in his mind, a rope to keep him buoyed. There was no danger in these waters.

They moved on. They played music, and John chased skirt after skirt and accidentally caught one. Cynthia was pretty and wanted to please him, and John knew he could never reveal everything about himself to her. She’d treasure it too much and John wasn’t equipped for that sort of softness; it made his mouth feral with contrariness. 

He hadn’t been able to tell Stu either, though he’d wanted to. He remembered one smoky night; Stu had started talking about something an existentialist friend had said, about power being wrested from others. Words had congregated in John’s mouth about how power was a thing surrendered for release, but then he’d caught his own reflection in Stu’s too-cool sunglasses and the words scattered like deviants in a police raid.

Stu wasn’t like Paul, where it didn’t matter what he said. Paul’d followed John’s lead about never talking about it. Stu would want discussion with Astrid, to tease it out with philosophy. The nuances of existentialism felt so antithetical to his horny wanderings that John knew he’d only feel cheap. Stu was dead now, of course, so John could only suppose how it would have gone.

He was lucky that their music and image were getting picked up because it meant he hardly had the time to think about surrender, power, Stu, or Cynthia. He was a Beatle, and that was good commerce these days.

The Beatles had done America, and parts of Europe most of them had never been to. They made movies, and people liked them so much that they asked them to do America again— but everything had to be bigger this time, more extravagant to prove the bubble wasn’t going anywhere, never mind bursting.

So now there were 50,000 screaming, crying girls conglomerated into a blob by John’s poor vision. Their presence was a wall of sound, bearing down on every note and gesture they played.

“Can you hear me?” he called, and noise answered but intelligibility didn’t.

Aliens, all of them, he thought suddenly. Or maybe he and the band were the aliens. It just didn’t feel like real life anymore, let alone music. He slackened his grip at the end in the face of such madness and played piano with his elbows; could have done with his feet for how every note was consumed by screams. Could’ve vanished right before their eyes for all the difference it would have made.

50,000 people. 100 watt amps. Four Beatles. Not one word heard.

He grinned with the rest of the lads as they were loaded into their Wells Fargo wagon, but his eyes felt over-bright and wild. He wanted to curl towards Paul, ask for something tighter than the tan-colored top, but instead he sighed and shut his eyes. Can’t lean into what couldn’t be seen.

+

The next day they were off the schedule, though Brian still managed to squeeze in a few interviews with radio stations and the like. Bob Dylan and the Supremes popped by, and John enjoyed it, but he felt like his smiles were too wide, splitting at the seams, his stuffing peeking through.

When George and Ringo proposed taking a carriage through Central Park like the last time, John’s lips had been quirked in agreement when Paul said, “Ta, but I’ll beg off. Too much jet lag, and there’s songs to write.”

“John?” Ringo asked.

John licked his lips, finding them suddenly dry. “Think I’ll stay behind too. Work on a song.”

“Make us look like layabouts, they do,” Ringo griped. John was pleased that the little camera crew took off after Ringo and George, leaving him and Paul alone in the band’s suite. They’d made it clear early on that they wouldn’t entertain prying ears when trying to write. Too distracting.

Paul went to the room he shared with Ringo, leaving the door ajar after him. John gravitated to the gap. He stuck his nose in to see Paul laid out over his bed, down to his shirtsleeves and vest.

“What do you need, John?” he asked, not lifting his eyes from his notebook. A pen was balanced between his fingers, drawing John’s attention to their length. If only he could get them on him.

“You working?” John asked.

“Not really.”

The distance between them stretched with the silence, and then came the itch. He wanted to bring himself low; low enough for Paul to step on him or do a whole manner of things… but he couldn’t mouth the words. Ego or self-preservation wouldn’t let him. Instead he paced to the dresser, thinking of little meanities that he might cast out to net him some control from someone else. Even a smack would do.

“Spoken to Jane lately?” he began, but Paul set his paper aside and stared down John with the full force of his attention. John felt so pinned he forgot his own question.

“What do you need, John?” Paul asked again, and there was a different inflection there, something demanding that set John loose-limbed.

“Think you know,” he murmured. “Don’t know how, but you seem to.” He felt raw just saying it aloud, and it amazed him. For the first time, he realized that maybe Paul could sense this too, the energy in their exchange. He might even hope Paul could get something from standing on the other end of the tunnel of John’s rapidly shrinking perception. He stared at Paul as though through vision alone he could pierce the vault of his private thoughts, but it proved elusive, smoke-like, as Paul took in John’s words and then languidly lay out his arm.

“Come here, then,” Paul said, and John started to, but stopped when Paul added, “Lower.”

John stared. Paul couldn’t mean…

But Paul’s face, the certain swerve of his lips, conveyed more eloquently than any words that he _did_ mean.

For a moment, John teetered on the precipice, the line between abstract deviancy and embracing how much he wanted to debase himself in front of Paul. He didn’t know if he had the strength to move forward, despite the way his neck ached to bend.

Then Paul said, “Now,” with such decisiveness that John sighed for the choice taken away.

John’s knees hit the carpet; it felt decidedly out of his control if he had to walk on his hands and knees to reach Paul’s side. He was still spread supine across the bed, looking for all the world like a passive recipient, but John well knew that a passive Paul was merely one lying in wait.

He reached the edge and sat back on his ankles, looking up through his fringe cautiously.

Paul’s hand fell to John’s head, heavy as it pulled through his hair. “What do you need, John?” he asked. A little sound escaped John’s throat and he leaned into the touch, but Paul withdrew. “You’ve got to use your words, luv, or we can’t do anything.”

That pulled him out of his reverie and he recoiled from the thought. The point was not to use words, the point was to maintain deniability. But then, Paul had said they might _do something._ That was a heady thought; one he’d only rarely allowed himself to consider in his deepest fantasies. What had Paul’s mind cooked up? More pressing still— was indulging curiosity worth the cost of exposing himself?

Paul’s voice came in, soft and persuasive. “I just want to give you what you need, but it’s hard when I don’t know for sure. Just say what’s good.”

“It’s _all_ good,” he managed. “I… it’s too loose.”

“You want to be held down?” Paul asked and John nodded, relieved Paul had guessed. He wanted to be bound, trapped in his body. “Legs and arms?” He shivered, and nodded again. There was a delicate pause.

“Naked?” Paul asked, and a tight jolt burst through John’s spine. He hadn’t considered it, but in the hotel room it was possible. To be even more exposed… As giddy as the thought left him, it felt fast though, too quick, and he hedged. Paul picked up on his wavering. “How about a dressing gown, then? Can open and close it.”

That felt like a good midway point. “Yeah,” he said, and earned the hand back in his hair for his use of language.

“Should I be nice?”

John shook his head. Not very. Not when John was tilting into this rushing wave of deviancy. “Bit of a dog, me,” he said, and swallowed hard against the shame of the meaning he was circling. Paul took the shame in hand, tightening his grip around John’s hair and pulling his head back. John gasped. Paul did understand, taking him by the scruff…

“Is there anything else?” Paul asked. “Nearly there.”

John worked his throat, feeling as though each undulation was dessert before Paul’s eyes. “Me neck.”

“You want… you want me to choke you?” Paul’s brow furrowed. Shame lapped at John’s stomach but only for a moment before Paul was shushing him. “It’s just a little dangerous, is all. Think you could tap out if you need to?”

John nodded. Paul tightened his grip, and John forced his voice into working order. “For you, aye.”

“All right.” The hand slackened, turned to a more tender touch. It felt like a cool breeze over the heated ache of his scalp.

Without the pressure, John came back to himself and the stark lines of the hotel room a little. “I’m not…” he started, unsure how he meant to finish the sentence.

“It’s not about that, is it?” Paul said incisively, and John felt a wave of relief. Yes, it wasn’t about being anything (even queer), not _really._ Paul nodded and then continued, “Take a shower? Go slow. If you…if you can’t come out, then just knock three times. But if you’re ready knock once and come to me…low like before.”

John swallowed and nodded. He went to the closet to collect the dressing gown, conscious of the unhurried way Paul’s eyes traced him.

John entered the bathroom and let out a tight exhale. Fuck. What was he doing? He didn’t know… but he wanted it, maybe even needed it. Paul had known; maybe he always had. John’s fingers were shaking as they went to his shirt. He put the water on to hide the anxious clicking of his nails against the buttons.

Once under the spray, John wiped himself down with a towel before the realization that he was washing himself up for Paul sent a thrill chasing over his skin. He groaned and went slower, being careful and meticulous. To be clean for Paul.

After showering, he toweled off and dried his hair roughly. The dressing gown went on only loosely. He stood before the door and pressed his head against the wood, trying to stop his mind from spinning so much from rabid anticipation. He’d dreamed about this so many nights, intangible desires too wretched to vocalize even as he obsessed over them. Paul had said them aloud. _Legs and arms._ It was here. He knocked once.

Some part of him knew to wait until Paul said, “Come in.”

He worked the knob and then dropped to his knees, pushing the wood open and looking into the hotel room. Both beds were stripped completely, but one was moved from the wall. Paul had fashioned some type of restraints from the sheets, about a metre long, that joined with the blankets attached to the legs of the bed. John was impressed.

Paul himself was sitting in a chair, legs neatly crossed. He’d shed his vest and popped a couple of his shirt buttons, rolled his long sleeves up to reveal pale forearms licked with dark hair. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers; he raised it to his lips for a long suck as he looked over John and the supplicant bend of him. It was hotly embarrassing to be _seen_.

“Come ‘ead, then,” Paul said. Low, John obeyed. He sat at Paul’s feet and looked up at Paul in time to see a hand descending onto his shoulders. It swiped over his back and then came to rest on his neck, dipping below the collar of the dressing gown to feel the hot skin waiting. John curled up into the grasp.

“Soon, Johnny, soon.” Paul knocked some ash off his cigarette and raised it to his lips. “Patience, I’ve not finished me light” he said around the filter. His hand stayed heavy on John, while his other languorously raised the cigarette up and down from his lips, wisps blowing out into the room. It was the longest cigarette in existence, John thought deliriously. His legs ached, but he didn’t dare twitch in case it moved him from Paul’s hand. His heart thudded, and the beat was picked up by Paul’s thumb, stroking at his pulse-point.

After an eon, Paul smudged the remaining filter into the tray and raised his hand to stroke over John’s head.

“There’s a good, patient lad,” Paul mused. John wanted to keen, but he settled for tilting with Paul’s hand. It was better than he imagined, pleasing Paul.

“Let’s get you on the bed.” John’s heart leapt at the words. He almost wasn’t sure how to bridge the distance to something he wanted so badly. Paul knew though, of course he did. His hands came to John’s shoulders, helping him stand on shaky legs. He kept a hand around John’s shoulder the whole time until he was spread out over the mattress.

Instinctively, he curled his limbs inward, protective. Paul tutted and drew them out one by one, using some strength to stretch each arm and leg to nearly full extension. John gave a token resistance before rolling his shoulders with the pull of muscle. It wasn’t his choice, not with Paul tugging and tugging until John was all unfurled before him. Each limb was a piece of his surrender, Paul putting him down in the alleyway again and again until John had no choice but to be still and obedient beneath him.

As Paul finished knotting the hotel linen around his last free wrist, it quickly became apparent that the dressing gown was too short and drafty to provide John with adequate coverage. Paul was methodical though, and after attaching and tightening the length for each limb, he leaned down and straightened the dressing gown out neat as you please, as though he were fixing John’s tie before a set.

John tested the restraints. They were good, tight. He pulled harder, but _oh,_ they weren’t moving. It struck him hot and fast that he was contained by these fetters and by Paul’s eyes roaming the exposed bends and curves of him. John strained against the binds, but they only grew tighter around him, holding him more capably as he did. Paul shed his air of fastidiousness and stepped into the shoes of a possessive.

“How’s that, pet?” he asked, and John, playing his role, growled. “Well chained, you are,” Paul mused. “It’s necessary with how rabid you were getting.”

John moaned, as if to say, _surely not I?_ He tried to lash out but couldn’t. He was held down perfectly, trapped into raw, feverish submission. Somehow, it gave him the space to shake and fight and growl in a way he couldn’t with so many eyes tracing his every move. The hordes were a distant memory now, silenced by a nervy electricity fluttering between them. It was just Paul. Only Paul.

“What a wild thing you are.” Thing. Yes. John felt it sometimes, felt too far flung out from humanity to warrant the title. “Little mongrel.” John moaned. Language was slipping through again; he began to embody the feral creature Paul was smugly tending to.

It was, for all that it riled him, fun, but he wanted more and he bucked up with what little slackness he had. Paul responded by putting his hand to John’s sternum, pressing until he went still. Maintaining eye contact, Paul’s hand fell to John’s hip, where the belt of the dressing gown was barely tied. John couldn’t hide the excited cant of his hips.

Paul grinned and tugged; it started to unravel. He let it without any encouragement, just consuming with his eyes as slow inch by slow inch it slipped down and over John’s thighs and around his hips, to pool on the bed around his buttocks. John’s cock was well hard by the time the air rushed to meet it.

His stomach dropped and his face burned. They hadn’t discussed this. John had only ever gotten hard after their little accidental interplays. Now though, he was bobbing up to his stomach with nary a touch. Paul was a bloke and his mate and part of John was petrified, but the sheer depravity of it only made him feel lower and dirtier. Despite all he said, he was just a dirty little queer all trussed up in bed. Exposed. His cock twitched helplessly.

His eyes desperately sought Paul’s to gauge his response, but Paul was still in-character. He made an ‘o’ of apparent surprise. “What’s this then? I thought chaining you was meant to teach you a lesson, but…”

He went to John’s side, eyeing his erection and looking at it like a modern art piece, all distant interest until— a puff of air blew up and over the top.

John moaned and shock rushed his veins. A little blob of pre-come swelled, iridescent, before slipping down the length of him. Paul observed the effect, smugness curling his lips, then leaned back. “We didn’t discuss this, did we? So I’ll not touch it.” John whined even as his head spun. What if they did talk about it? Was Paul interested? What did that mean about Paul? Maybe it was just the character he was playing, but maybe… maybe… The pressing ache of his erection arrested his attention, and he shelved the stirring questions for the moment. Paul’s nonchalant denial made him even hotter, and John bucked into the air but was helpless to service himself, completely at another’s mercy. Completely at _Paul’s_ mercy.

Paul could do anything to him. They’d booked the whole hotel floor. George and Ringo and prying eyes of the public were whisked off somewhere to the wings. Paul could hit him, could touch him tenderly, could even lever his shoes over him.

“I’m gasping for a drink.” Smooth, like it was any old day, Paul went to the trolley and started clinking glasses. John craned his head but could only catch Paul peripherally. He fidgeted and moaned but accomplished nothing, while across the room ice clattered and clothing shifted. Paul pulled the chair close to the bed and settled in. He observed John, eyes glittering as he swirled his glass.

He took a sip and then, with an elegant gesture, he set the glass right on John’s stomach, atop his bellybutton.

The shock of the chill on his overheated skin made his muscles flutter and Paul had to stop the glass from tipping. With the base between his thumb and forefinger, he stroked his other three fingers over the tender flesh of John’s stomach. John whined for those fingers to drift lower, but they didn’t. It tickled horribly, in fact. John half spasmed, gasping as his prick jangled over his stomach. He wasn’t free to stop Paul, could only receive now.

“Steady on.” Paul’s touch turned reassuring instead of provoking. “You can do this for me, can’t you?”

John shuddered. God, he wanted to. He nodded incrementally and the pleased smile it earned made him feel all too tangible.

“You’re all right,” he said, and set the glass down again. It felt even colder somehow. Sweat coated the bottom, gathering on John’s stomach, but he forced his muscles to relative stillness as Paul released it cleanly. His hand even stroked down the soft slope of John’s side as it retreated, and John grunted a high whine.

Paul was a right bastard, but he wore it well, wore it the way John always imagined he would. His brain, always a constant clatter of language and a swelling ocean of mismatched emotions, had narrowed onto three perfectly simple sensations. First was his cock, swollen and purple against his stomach. Next, a little higher up, was the glass. Condensation pooled and slipped down the sides of his skin, each chilled trail perfectly clear and identifiable, achingly intimate as it slid downward. Finally, and always, it was Paul, Paul sitting and watching John as though John was his to purview. John’s vision was too poor, too weak to tell, but he thought he saw a bunch in Paul’s lap. He hoped there was, hoped that Paul was pleased. If there was any jutting ache, Paul didn’t pay it any mind. Paul was focused on John, watching him melt into perfect stillness of body and mind.

John shivered, feeling all at once like a decorative object, something made and owned. He fell still, suddenly desiring to embody everything about art for Paul’s pleasure. He understood now, something about Paul. In the back of his mind it was clicking into place: Paul and his cramped home in Forthlin, notepaper turned over and used twice even after the war, the careful use of sugar, and his first question after his mam’s death about the money _._ Paul’d never _had_ , not really. It was part and parcel of his ambition. He was helplessly attracted to more _._ Now he leaned into their wealth and fame but, even holding fine watches and gold lighters, John didn’t know if you could unlearn such intrinsic hunger.

John wanted to be had, for Paul and his bright hunger to take the whole of him and possess it. A John Lennon exhibition, for Paul’s eyes only. He felt nearly there, soaring in that strange, high place again, embarrassment and pleasure combined, dripping off him like the steady slick sliding of condensation. John felt hot in the same way, like he was sweating from the inside out.

Paul’s hand crept to John’s hip, gliding up and around his cock and resting on John’s now trembling stomach, his touch slick with water. The glass didn’t tip. John forced himself just still enough to save it from slopping, and Paul grinned. Taking it slowly in hand, he knocked the liquor all back at once. John watched his throat work, his stomach finally relaxing from the strain and slipping into stark relief. He had done well, had held it even. The water was warmer on his skin now, dripping almost to the place where his dick was hot and wanting. He jerked a little, urging it down to cool him, and only just managed it. He let out a little moan, embarrassed by his own helplessness, that this was all he could do to cool the heat of his need. It made him feel even more base, even simpler.

He was so high he didn’t notice when Paul finished his drink and approached the bed again. He wasn’t ready for the snap in his voice. “Come on, let’s see then.”

The tone jangled John, and he blinked hard at the rough touch on his arm.

“What’s this? Gone shy after all your panting, you rabid thing?”

The words were like a blow. John was too peeled back, too vulnerable to let them flow around him, and instead he found himself shaking. The pain filtered in, the burn of the restraints and the too-cold air on his skin. Before he could sink, Paul’s warm hands went to his face, catching him again.

“Sorry, was that too rough?” Paul traced John’s cheeks warmly. His tone had slipped from the demanding bark into something sweeter. John stilled and looked at him. Taking the cue, Paul continued. “That’s my fault. I got embarrassed, y’know, seeing something as beautiful as you. Knocked me out, made me say daft things.” The way his hands carefully wiped and carried the budding wetness away from his eyes felt good, and John leaned into the touch. “You’re all right, luv. You just need a little smooth with the rough, don’t you?”

John felt a little ashamed, but he did. This felt just right, easing him back on the way to the nice airy space he’d been before and away from the place that was _down_ instead of low. “There’s a good lad. Should have told you so. Keeping so still for me, so precious and obedient,” Paul said and earned a shiver, this one pleased and toe-curling. John had been. He’d kept so still for Paul.

“Can I look at you again? You were a right sight.” John hesitated, feeling raw and flash-burned, but Paul’s eyes were still gentle and familiar and so John dipped his head. He liked that Paul had asked before leaning back and surveying John with a charmed expression usually only garnered by John’s wittiest lines.

“Yeah,” Paul murmured. Pleasure unfolded and John tilted back into the buzz.

Paul could see everything, the scaly skin at his elbows, the freckles on his shoulders, the lip of stubborn softness disfiguring his stomach— it didn’t feel shameful under Paul’s eyes. John couldn’t shift away or cover his deficits, and Paul didn’t flinch from looking at them. Paul took all of him, not just the parts that were good and useful. His body was all John, suddenly, instead of the patchwork of denial and self-loathing he donned like a shroud. He was unspeaking now, could only burn beneath Paul’s gaze, shivering with the flush crawling up and over the skin of his chest.

“There you are. That’s lovely, just lovely.” John curled up against the bindings but found no refuge. He couldn’t even hide from the words and they felt like little drops of sugared acid sprinkling on him, stinging blooms. “You’re all right,” Paul said, and, impossibly, John realized he was.

Naked and splayed before Paul, John’s soft core was displayed in a way he’d wanted but couldn’t manage alone. Christ, he couldn’t run and it felt good, the absence of a choice he always had to make to protect himself. There was no running this time, just tilting harder and harder into the buzzing dark wave of exposure, chasing his mind higher into the stratosphere.

John was hard and aching again. He had drooped a little from the earlier shock, but his member had arisen to the fight once more, leaking onto his lower stomach with Paul’s praise. It bobbed with his helpless thrusts, and Paul only smiled, watching him struggle and throb.

The feeling was stunning, higher than the premium pot they’d had in the Bahamas, but he wanted more; he wanted the blurred vision and the possessive ring around his throat. He let the desire chase his face and Paul picked it up, mouth tightening.

“All right, luv, we’ll get you there. First I need to untie your hands.” John thrashed; he didn’t want that. The ache and spread of his body was elating. “I know, I know, but you need to be able to tap out. That’s what we agreed on, yeah? Do you want the legs too?” John shook his head and Paul dipped his head, leaving the ankles tied and only undoing the wrappings around his hands. The blood rushed in pins and needles up and down his arms as his circulation normalized. Paul had done them a bit tight, but John would never tell.

“Now, hands to your side. You’re not to move them except to tap out, understand?” The whipcord tone was back, and John found his fingers sliding sweaty over his thighs, anticipating. He knew what was next and he ached for it.

Paul looked him over and seemed satisfied with his subservience. “Christ, you…” For a moment, it seemed like his character broke, something real peeking from behind the curtains, marveling and awed, before he summoned himself again, tucking away whatever it was. “Let’s see.”

Quick eyes evaluated the set-up before Paul carefully joined John on the bed. He aimed for sitting on the side, before eventually swinging a long leg over John’s middle. His thighs strained, keeping him spread but hovering over John, not bringing his weight down to bear on him. The sight made John’s mouth run dry. He’d never thought of Paul _this way_ before. Spread over him, he meant. It was—

CLAP! A flash of heat bloomed over John’s face and he gasped. An aching, heady sting from Paul’s hand bloomed over his face and into his hair, tugging. His dick twitched painfully hard, rushing blood and adrenaline.

“What did I say?”

Paul made a sharp clicking noise behind his teeth and John suddenly noticed that his hands had wrapped around the warm join of Paul’s thigh and calf. Strange unfamiliar heat swept his face as he dragged his hands to his sides, made them splay out on the bed. He tried to put it out of his mind and think of what lay ahead, instead of Paul’s thighs around him.

“There’s a good lad,” Paul purred. “Tap me twice if you need to stop.” John tilted up for the soft touch that came, but even as he leaned into it, he was struck with a sudden manic realization of how _mad_ it was to ask someone to choke you. One wrong move and John Lennon’d be nowt but piss in the wind. He opened his mouth, but then his gaze caught Paul’s expression. This close, he could make out the determination twisting his brow, the hard line of his lips and the intensity of his eyes. The Paul kneeling over him was not flippant or coy like Paul was in interviews; it was the same Paul as on the 18th take, running his bass line into the ground to extract the perfect line. It was the way he looked sussing out a stubborn bridge, or turning rotten cliché pop chords into number ones. It was the determination that had pulled water from stone, success from shared scribblings. It was _Paul._ Something settled in his chest, and John trusted that Paul could cradle his neck and take him to the high place and no further.

He was vibrating now, arching his throat up. The first touch of Paul’s hand, gentle and easing him down, was like a brand of heat. He’d thought about Paul’s fingers more than he’d ever admit to anyone and now each one wrapped decadently around the column of John’s throat like a collar. John’s eyes flashed up to meet Paul’s. They hovered there for a moment, calculating, and then the pressure came.

John would moan if he could, but his lungs were rapidly robbed of air and he could only gasp. The colors seemed oversaturated, tightening and climbing into higher relief. The hazel of Paul’s eyes had never seemed more apparent and striking than in this air-deprived light. His cock throbbed. The intensity of his erection pulsed high between his legs, and some strange horizon was dragging near him, dark at the edges and curling up—

The pressure eased. Paul drew back and John gasped, fell back and thrust his arms out against the bed as oxygen saturated him. His chest heaved and his eyes felt wild as he bucked and bucked the air, over-full cock aching for friction. Paul babbled something, sweet praise maybe, but John was reeling with sensitivity. He hadn’t known he could feel that much, that there was that much feeling in the whole world. He moaned, begging to be taken there again. Paul met his eyes and John found steadiness there, anchoring. Time slipped between them and then the pressure was back.

John’s mind spiraled higher and higher, walking the thin line of existence and whatever else. He was a wave cresting, impermanent but miraculous. John was on Jupiter, but Paul was still above him, holding him even as the corners dimmed out.

Paul’s mouth opened like a slow flower as the pressure on either side of his throat receded. “Do it, John, take what you need.”

John blindly reached down, knocking into Paul’s trembling legs as he clumsily grabbed for his erection. One touch, and he was flying off in the most mind-melting orgasm of his life. Vision and sensation blew white in the face of such wracking pleasure; he buffeted in blank orgasmic space for what seemed an eternity.

Smell returned first with his gasping sucks of air. The familiar, rank medley of his and Paul’s sour sweat. A swath of off-white smothered his vision, and pulled up and down with breaths. Paul’s chest, John realized at length. His hands were extended above John’s head; looking up, John could see the curve of his neck and the underside of his stubbled jaw. Legs must have given out, so he’d caught himself, John realized, but all of this was filtering distantly, like the sound of a record playing a room over. A drop of sweat ran down Paul’s chin and onto John’s head, and they made eye contact.

John felt unraveled, a pool of little John-bits, but Paul looked at him like he could see the forest and the trees; something about that sent a shiver not quite like desire, but not unlike wanting, through his chest.

“All right, John?”

John didn’t know how far out from all right he’d travelled, but it was in the good direction. He swallowed. Paul’s expression softened and his head dipped to leave a little kiss in the matted mess of John’s hair. Then Paul vanished from his sight.

The binds on his ankles tugged before unfurling and drawing out from under him. John heard the mess of cloth hit the floor, the tap running, and the sound of the ticking clock. Mundanity settled like a blanket around him, making the otherworldliness from before all the starker. The cloth of the dressing gown drew over him, knotted with scrupulous hands.

“Budge up,” Paul said, and John tried to move his limbs only to find them strengthless and artificial feeling. A cool rim pressed against his mouth, and Paul helped him sit up and drink the water. John hadn’t realized how parched he was until this moment. He felt exhausted, like he’d run a marathon even though he’d only been in bed. He squinted at the clock, trying to parse its secret machinations only to give up on the blurry face.

Paul always knew when he was trying and failing to construe the world and supplied, “It’s three now, been about half an hour.” John would have choked if he were still drinking.

It didn’t seem possible, the way John’s whole life seemed pale in comparison of the rush of sensations he’d just been overwrought with. Paul shoved him over and then staggered onto the bed, wet with sweat.

Their shoulders met with a little bump and Paul exhaled a long sigh, as though he had been the one kept on edge for thirty minutes. John still felt small, contained and all-too visible. He was glad that Paul only tipped his head up and joined John in staring at the ceiling instead of examining the strange inexplicable thing they’d both just participated in. Whatever hovered between them was electric and too loaded, and John couldn’t even speak still, mouth not yet arrived from its long trip to Jupiter.

Paul’s even breath beside him waxed and waned like lapping waves of the Atlantic somewhere outside. John came back to himself gradually, his body registering as belonging to him bone by bone, limb by limb. Paul waited, dark lashes fluttering in John’s periphery like bird wings.

“That was heavy,” Paul murmured after a time. John let out a short huff that would have been a laugh had he more breath. “It was good, but it was heavy. Are you all right?”

John twitched his shoulder against Paul and maneuvered his lips a little. It felt as much as he could give at the moment, and Paul accepted it as currency. He hadn’t wanted to say anything about it, but Paul was a canny bastard with words; he had a way of framing things so they felt approachable to John.

“I think the binds were too tight,” Paul began. John would have preferred them tighter, but Paul was already musing aloud about materials that might be better in his tedious, detail-oriented way. “I dunno, maybe silk or sommat like that. That’s what Thorsten told me to try, at any rate. But, considering, I thought we’d just make do.”

John’s pulse thudded against his neck with sudden panic. Paul’d _told_ somebody? It made sense, the way he’d done the room up and made tangible John’s inarticulate desires, but betrayal stirred in his gut. As if John didn’t already feel wretched and unfathomable.

The back of Paul’s hand brushed against John’s and he made a shushing sound. “Nothing like that. I’d never.” John’s eyes flickered to Paul’s for a charged moment before he was convinced.

Paul continued. “Back in Hamburg, I was at some club or other and I met this bloke Thorsten. He was telling me about the clubs he went to. Different, he said. I asked about them. He told me the whole lot. It was sort of stuff like this. I asked him why he’d do it, and he said something just the same as you did back then, about floating off unless tied down, or maybe it was the other way around, getting tied up to float off.” John settled, though his hair still felt prickly and on end. “Think he was trying to get me to go with him, but he was just as glad to tell me all about it. I paid attention, because…I thought maybe it was the sort of thing you meant.”

If what just happened was part of Paul’s conclusion, then John could comfortably say it was above and beyond what he’d ever imagined. It was curious that Paul had hoarded the scraps of knowledge for later use while thinking of John. The question played over John’s face, but Paul kept his attention firmly on the ceiling. “I didn’t mind doing it,” he murmured. “I mean, there’s something different about it.” He’d said too little, and John champed at the bit for meaning. “Next time though, we should use silks. I think your wrists are going to be bruised.”

John thought he was out of pleasure, had had every drop wrung out of him, but it proved possible still as he raised a hand to see the red, irritated marks he’d rubbed into his wrists. A nice memory.

More than that though… “Next time?” he rasped, voice feeling odd and foreign in his mouth.

“If you like.” Paul’s shoulders gave a little shrug. John did like— more than liked. For a blissful moment, everything was stripped away, and John had only had to be whatever sugar-spun core of him remained, not a Beatle, not thin, not witty, not anything. It was centering. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so grounded and serene. Maybe not since the night in Hamburg. Still, it confused John; he didn’t understand what Paul got from laying the mess of him out. Even with thinking of Paul as someone who’d never _had_ , it seemed like a lot of work just to give John this strange serenity… And if Paul said it was for the band, John would sock him.

Another thought stole over his mind. John lifted his head enough to glance down the long stretch of Paul’s body. There was no erection pressing against his pants, no wet stain. Something bitter rose to the back of his throat, a disappointment that bewildered him. Perhaps he had imagined the jutting. His glance was nowhere near subtle and Paul shifted uncomfortably.

“You didn’t…” John started. Mutual pleasure was something neither of them were strangers to, and he could (with some effort) frame this as mutual masturbation.

“I… the first part was nice. I quite liked that.” Paul’s head tilted to the side, his eyes on John’s neck. “The part after…”

“You didn’t like.” John didn’t know how to feel about that.

“It just needed attention. I was dead scared I’d hurt you, go too far. It was good, but I needed to focus. D’you understand?” John didn’t. Guilt zapped through him, but he shelved it in the interest of taking in what Paul had said before.

“But the first part?” John asked. Paul’s eyes met his and the electricity flowed strong and sudden.

“Well, you were gorgeous, and all obedient.” _Gorgeous._ The word hit John like a tank, crawling across him and leaving tracks on his skin. God, John had nearly killed men for implying less, and now Paul had said it plainly to his face. He’d said loads before, during, but that was different; John was restrained then. Hearing it from him now was impactful, and John wasn’t sure he could own up to what it meant yet. 

Paul hastened to add, “I mean, I liked ye on your knees for me.” Paul softened the dropping of John’s stomach when he said, “Only when you like to be, of course.”

The control was passed back to John, to be accepted among the strange floating islands he called his mind. John did like being put on his knees when he wanted it; he loved the way Paul led him there, could strip the decision and his qualms away until submitting felt the only just course.

“Only for you.” He’d meant the words to be dry, but they came out too honest and he sucked a breath through his teeth, as though he might pull them back into his mouth.

He felt Paul’s eyes on his face, remembered the airy feeling between desire and want. Paul blinked a little and smiled, genuine like. “Well, I’d only do this for you too.” Both ducked their eyes at the same time and Paul scratched his head. “Guess I better switch beds with Ringo then.”

A laugh startled from John. “You’re wicked, son. Doing this on another man’s bed.”

“Didn’t want to do it on me own,” Paul grumbled. “But we’ve fairly ruined it now.”

“I’m sure there’s room in Brian’s bed, if you need.” The joke about their manager’s sexuality fell a little flat among the remains of what they’d done, but Paul managed a smile.

“Should make this your bed, you’d deserve it.”

“I am in need of a kip after this, Macca.” John was willing to take it right where he was, to be honest. The lads wouldn’t think anything of him napping in the dressing gown.

Paul sat up, arms stretching. His shirt was sticking to his chest and back with sweat and oh— John’s mouth went dry despite the recent water. There, in shiny little ribbons on his trousers, was the smeared mess of his orgasm painted over Paul’s backside. It rendered him somehow wordless. God, the sight of him.

“I think I need a shower meself.” Paul ran a hand through his hair before collecting clean clothes and dipping into the bathroom. John couldn’t help but imagine him peeling off the clothes, the twist of his face as he encountered something sticky and then the realization—

John shut his eyes. For a single moment, he acknowledged that there was more to the mess of him than just needing to be low for someone, and that unfortunately it had more than a little to do with Paul.

Later, he mused, shutting his eyes. It could all be put off ‘til later.

+

John woke in the early evening, washing up on the shores of uncertainty and self-loathing. He was greeted by the soft sounds of Paul’s snores, the cool fabric of the dressing gown, and the warm memory of careful hands re-tying cloth around his naked desire. He shimmied to the side of bed that brought him closer to Paul and watched his dim figure breathe. Yes, John thought as the cold ebbed and let the sunlight in, he was all right. They’d be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
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> .  
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> What? Paul didn't get off?! Oh shit, guess you better read the next chapter in a few days. Things really only escalate from hereon out.
> 
> Thank you for the support and comments! They really make my day to read~ If you feel like leaving one, I'd be more than happy to read it and respond💜


	4. Crushed Velvet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul has some concerns. Meanwhile, John schemes for another scene and gets more than anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So blown away by the support! I hope you all like this next bit.
> 
> The first person to give me feedback and excellent critique is, of course, my stunning beta, johnjie!

+

John straightened from his bow to meet the screams of their adoring public. While America was certainly the wildest, Canada had not failed to turn out in either style or volume. With this, they had put the finishing touches on the first of two concerts at Maple Gardens, and John was feeling rather peppy, all said.

The manic energy from playing Shea had been purged under Paul’s careful hand, and the slackened tension made John feel loose and easy, like the weight of his bones was lesser. The crowd had picked up on it, devouring his eager stage presence despite the strain in his singing voice. Brian had been aghast at his scratchy tenor over breakfast, but John himself was shocked he wasn’t completely hoarse. It may have had something to do with the fingerprints lining the side of his neck -- not the front. John had admired the marks in the morning, tilting his head from side to side and relishing the stretch of pain. It was nostalgic to have a reminder to appreciate; it cast him back to the first time in Menlove.

He still didn’t really understand himself, even after all this, but at least his misunderstanding left him shivering with anticipation instead of self-loathing.

When Paul had reentered the room after his shower and seen him running gentle fingers over the marks, something odd had stolen over his face. John couldn’t help but arch his neck, feeling tickly at the sharp look it earned him. The marks on his wrist were a little harder to hide, and John spent the day pleasantly hyper-aware of their presence. His mood was brilliant; he felt a vim for the rock n’ roll game that he hadn’t had in a long while. Clearly delving into deviancy had far better impacts than he’d expected.

There was just one wrinkle in the whole thing.

If John was swinging high, Paul was dragging his feet in the sand. At breakfast he’d been fine, maybe a little over distracted by the pleased way John kept adjusting his shirt-cuffs to feel the rings ‘round his wrist, but fine. Paul had poured tea, which John passed on, preferring to stick to water.

“I just thought… your throat,” he had murmured. To anyone else, he was asking about John’s ‘cold,’ but the flush tracing the lower part of his cheeks betrayed him.

John had just grinned. “ ‘M only a bit scratchy. Water’s fine, ta.” And that was that; except it wasn’t. After that, Paul’s mood had soured, dipping down with little frowns that twisted the landscape of his face into something between a pout and discomfort. He got moody and withdrawn, chain smoking on the airplane and continually asking John if he could get him water, tea, anything?

“Christ, Paul, no!” John had stood up and wheedled to switch with Ringo, ignoring Paul’s hot betrayed gaze chasing the back of his head.

Then they were performing, and it was fine, it was good, but there was this edge of tension running up Paul, stiffening his legs where usually he’d bob and tap like the best of them to the song’s meter. They still had another concert after this, and it was driving John up the wall to sing across from Paul twitching like a guilty criminal. John wanted things to be normal; the little bits that weren’t stood out like thorns along a stem, bleeding out his good mood.

A wealth of frustration settled in John’s stomach, banishing the pleasant rush from before. What was the point of what they’d done if Paul was going to be hideously weird about it afterwards? Deeper in his stomach, he worried that maybe he had misconstrued Paul’s real feelings. Maybe he was disgusted with the way his bandmate had keened like a dog and begged for a hand around his neck. Or maybe it was the queer way John had watched him, had reached for his prick around that tense thigh. It weren’t normal, that.

Shit. Now his mood was thoroughly ruined. A wrench twisted his stomach and he stumbled down the stage stairs.

A hand shot out and caught him by the wrist. Pain pushed a hiss through his teeth and John looked up to find Paul, arm shooting back. “You all right?”

“Are you?” The words flew sharp and hostile from his mouth and Paul fidgeted. His attention went to Ringo and George further ahead of them, Brian waiting to give them feedback.

“Can we talk?”

John felt his hair prick up at the mere thought. God, _more talking._ He didn’t want to, but Paul’s fingers were worrying between his teeth, the nasty habit of chewing the skin there that Brian was always trying to break.

“Yeah, all right.” John mimed undoing his zip at George, who nodded. He and Paul ducked to an out of way copse of trees, where it was private. Paul moved onto his other hand, biting a new hangnail; it irritated John to see him messing with the hands he’d fantasized so much about.

“Stop it,” he snapped.

Paul’s hand fell from his mouth. “Sorry, sorry.” He blinked. “I am sorry.”

John ran a hand through his hair. Christ. He had thought Paul understood… but maybe he’d gotten too wrapped up in the fantasy. Of course no-one understood; John himself didn’t. John took a deep breath, trying to ignore the disappointment boiling in his stomach. For a half-dizzy, fantastic moment he’d really believed Paul had enjoyed the mess of him. But who would?

“It’s fine…I mean, I asked you to do it to me, didn’t I?”

“I know that. It’s just, the part in the middle.” It took a few seconds for the instance to filter through John’s mind -- the jagged way he’d been pulled from the sweet spot he’d found by Paul’s unkind words. It twisted his stomach a little, but it was nothing like the pale-faced anxiety stretching Paul’s expression. “I’m sorry, I got too carried away.”

John flushed in frustrated embarrassment. He was the one who told Paul not to be nice. The first part had felt wonderful, riling and perfectly debasing, but then the sharp words had startled him from the peak he was climbing and brought him down. He didn’t understand his body’s reactions, or why getting what he asked for had only shattered him.

In the beginning, John was a frothing angry dog, but somewhere in the middle, he’d turned into something softer, something almost unfamiliar to the him that he was willing to acknowledge; something weak. Guilt and embarrassment swirled, and Paul read the emotions clean off his face.

“It’s not your fault,” Paul said, with such assurance John could almost believe it. “I shoulda paid more attention. I s’pose… I was feeling bad about that.” Paul blinked hard, brow furrowed. The knot of unpleasantness tangled in John’s stomach slackened. _This_ was what was worrying him?

“The rest didn’t bother you?” John pressed.

Paul shook his head. “No, you were… _it_ was brilliant. Really, I dunno, I never felt anything like it before. Having so much control, so much trust. It was intense.” A glaze painted his eyes, proprietary, possessive. Stark elation coiled in John’s gut. He must have let out a little sound because Paul smiled a touch bitter as his chin dropped. “I guess that’s why I’m just disappointed. I should’ve read it better. I’m sorry, John.”

“So that’s what’s got you down?” John asked, and it was sounding more like the sensation he’d had back then, falling from the high too quickly. It seemed odd that Paul was dealing with it now, but then the whole business was _odd,_ wasn’t it?

“Yeah, I dunno.” Paul shrugged, shoulders tense.

“Well, you caught me before I dropped down. Anyone else would’ve muddled it,” John said. Paul tilted his head up, and John continued. “ ’S’part of starting something like this, right? Needs a little tuning.”

“Like a guitar?” Paul asked, a little lift in his tone.

“Just the same.” John extended his hands, giving a long stretch along the wonderful ache of him. He’d never get tired of the way Paul’s heated eyes chased the motion. A marvelous feeling swept him. Yes, maybe Paul did understand _._ “We’ll get it eventually,” John reassured, and he was already wondering when the next opportunity would present itself.

“I’m still sorry,” Paul said once more.

John rolled his eyes. “Right, well, I’ve taken all the apologies I can. We’ve another set soon and I’m gasping for some tea.” He glanced over Paul, thinking for a moment before he tacked on, “Fix it for me?”

Paul perked up at that, and John knew he was on the right track somehow, despite the bumbling. They rejoined the rest of the band and opening acts taking their tea in the back and chatting. Brian was waiting, foot tapping, and John made a show of sliding up behind George and Ringo, looking around like he’d never been absent. Paul was getting their tea, and John watched the blurry movements of his hands, careful here too, just like everywhere else. Never careless, his Paul.

The group settled on some folding chairs Sounds Incorporated had generously vacated, and Brian started telling them about the plan after the concert for getting back to their hotel. John’s attention lay elsewhere. Paul’s eyes, dark vague circles, drifted over to him as he finally took the first sip. Naturally, the tea was perfect, but John let out a little appreciative hum and the ambiguous tightness in Paul’s face seemed to ease some.

If Paul wanted ( _needed_ ) to fix him tea and give him enough water to fill the Mersey, the least John could do was let him, especially when his eyes sparkled with the promise of future dalliances.

Paul’s legs uncrossed, and John was assailed by the sudden memory of how those slender thighs had looked pulled to either side of him. His mind hovered there before drifting momentarily to the kiss pressed to the crown of his head at the end. It was something… interesting, something to pursue. He couldn’t quite keep the strange, crawling smile from his face, and he felt pleased to see it reflected on Paul’s.

“Are you boys listening?” Brian demanded.

“Not a word,” John promised.

+

From beneath the banquet table, John kicked his feet on the cruddy, overpriced carpet. It was nothing like the green velvet he’d recently installed at Kenwood. He didn’t especially want to be lurking down here, but it was for a purpose.

See, John wanted to believe Paul. He did. He wanted more than anything to imagine that Paul got the same sick, shocking elation from commanding as John got from the surreal place among the treetops he catapulted into from bringing himself low. He just didn’t really see how it was possible. With that in mind, John was intent on dragging out another sweet session from Paul to get to the heart of things. Perhaps it had a little to do with the fact the tour was winding down, and he was wondering what that meant for them, after ten days of intense eye-contact and something John wouldn’t quite call longing _._ He was anxious about returning, didn’t trust that this cathedral of sensation sprung up within himself could find space to breathe among the fresh cut grass lining the hedges of Kenwood. There certainly hadn’t been space for it among the Liverpool brickwork.

Once he’d started on that track, John’s head took over. He spent the night remembering how Paul had choked him without any arousal, probably been repulsed by John’s gasping and whining. Nothing doing with John’s utter strangeness, and he felt revolting, untouchable. 

In the daylight, playing shows, he’d rallied with Paul’s easy smiles that buoyed his mood and hopes. The mirth and heat hovering between them reminded him that it wasn’t one sided like it had been that time as teenagers. They both understood now, and John meant to understand more of Paul’s motives in their twisty game. And more than that, he was determined to get it without saying a word. Actions speak louder, after all.

They were at some record head’s house in LA, getting more awards and laurels for them to rest on for when everything went to shite in the future. It was standard procedure; John and Paul would stand together with the rest of the boys, smiling and shaking hands— except this time, John needed to incite a bit of Paul’s ire. His bandmate had garnered a bit of a taste for professionalism. Loved a good laugh, his Paul, but he also didn’t much see the point in nipping at the hand what wrote their checks. As the head of Capitol Records, Alan Livingstone was just that.

Subsequently, instead of making nice with the party guests, John was hiding under a table, heeled boots kicking out the bottom. Surely this ought to earn him a little something from Paul, once he cottoned on. John could unspool him from there, make him mad enough to do something deviant to John, and none of the soft touching or compliments neither. John wanted rawness, degradation and depravity, not that soppy place that had him near crying like last time, drawn taut and fragile by Paul’s compliments. No, it would be different this time; Paul would get the bulldog.

Despite that, John didn’t expect it to take this long for Paul to find him. He supposed with Dean Martin floating about Paul had gotten distracted. John frowned. The words “Marco-Polo” rested on his lips for incentive, but just then the tablecloth lifted. John winced at the light.

He expected Paul’s hands gripping (deliciously) hard on his forearms to drag him out, but was met instead with a wide American accent.

“I never saw such table legs in my life.” Even with his myopia there was no missing that nose and eyebrow combination. Christ, the great irreverent himself, Groucho!

Correcting his splayed self would only be an insult, so John wiggled. “They’re an import. Liddypool stock.”

“That explains the pale ankles. Now, which one are you?”

“Lennon, sir,” John informed him.

“Fancy seeing one of them outside of Russia. Shoulda guessed they were only hiding under the table for the red scare to pass.”

“Never been.” John blinked. “Here I thought Marx invented the whole communist gig.”

“Only the manifesto.” Groucho levered one of his thick brows in mirth. “Stay hush though, don’t want the lawyers after my copyright.”

“Oh, you bet your life, aye, keep it to meself then. No Lennon without Marx after all,” John said. “Or more of a pink variety than red.”

“No, you can tell _me_ , but if you kept it to _you_ self that would be a big help,” Groucho said, sending John into spirals of laughter.

He gasped when he felt a kick by his legs and flopped on his back for a better look, grinning up at Paul’s twisted face as he approached. “Hullo, Trotsky!”

“Christ, John, we’ve been everywhere looking for you— oh, hullo. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.” Paul’s eyes immediately went to Groucho, shaking his hand and goggling at the daft cigar pinned between his teeth. John fidgeted. He wasn’t much for Paul’s attention wandering at just this moment. He kicked his leg out, landing a good hit on Paul’s shins and earning an angry, frustrated glare.

“Love to chat, but I’ve got to get this one back to say goodbye for the night.” Paul’s hands wrapped around John’s, the tight grip everything he’d hoped for. Aye, he was on the right track.

“Comrade.” John gave a lazy salute as he was hauled off. Paul’s fingers rested heavy around his shoulder, giving John a shivery tense feeling in his spine as they bade their belated goodbyes to their host and loaded into the car. It should have been accidental, the way Paul’s ankle swung around John’s and locked his leg against the car interior, but it felt anything but.

They reached their borrowed mansion at a snail’s pace for how ready John was for the next act. 

“Gonna try working out the next single,” Paul said once they’d unloaded. His hand was hidden from view and rubbing John’s spine between his shoulder blades. The best part was that he didn’t seem to realize he was doing it, or the effect it was having on John.

“But… we’ve just released an album, haven’t we?” Ringo asked, head tilted askance.

“Take it down the hall, I need to sleep,” George grumbled. 

At length, Ringo said, “Goodnight,” and followed.

John looked to Paul who kept his eyes forward until they were completely alone. Mal and Neil were in the gatehouse, and Ringo and George would be retiring in the other end of Zsa Zsa Gabor’s horseshoe-shaped mansion…which left a whole wing for them to play in. Paul’s eyes flicked sideways, narrowing at the feverish excitement lighting John’s face.

“Come on, you.”

John was steered into a French-style parlor. Baroque bric-a-brac cluttered the walls and desks like gold-gilt frosting. John whipped around, eagerly crowding Paul’s space. He earned a dark look for his trouble.

“Christ, you can’t do that when we’re working. We’re not in bloody Hamburg anymore,” Paul snipped. “If you need something, you’ve got to tell me, aye?”

“Drive you mad, does it?” John asked. He puffed a breath in Paul’s face, loving the way his nostrils flared in anger. “Good.”

Paul stepped closer, his extra bit of height letting him take John’s space. This close, John could see his hazel eyes were dilated.

“Ooh, you’re looking for a smack, lad.” His eyes caught John’s shiver. John himself wasn’t aware of the scent he was dogging until just that moment. The hum beneath his skin was akin to the days at the clubs, craving something physical, messy _._ In Paul’s firm and controlled hands, a beating might even contain the sweet blood rush with none of the sour bile. He handled John so well. The memory of the chastising clap from their last game played over John’s face and a flush raised heat along his cheeks. Eager blood, his.

Paul watched it all, John’s interplay and yearning. “You _are_ looking for a smack, aren’t you?” He stepped back, tension releasing as he reached calmly for his cigarettes. There was that canny way again, how Paul could switch himself cool and hot. His self-control drove John up the wall… and made him long to cant ever forward into him.

Paul lit himself with a match. “I’ve said it before. Words. Use ‘em.”

“Glasses, Paul!” John quipped, feeling mulish at having been outmaneuvered. He’d almost earned that heavy hand again by sheer pluck, no words needed.

Paul exhaled, blowing the smoke out in a grey stream. “Ask me nicely.”

The thought of begging for a beating made John feel heady and vulnerable. He rebelled against it, twisting his lips. “Give us a hit, sir.” His quip earned him a raised brow.

“You’ll get double for that, Winston.” God, John hoped that was a promise.

“I like it when you call me Winston,” John crooned. “Makes me think of Parliament.”

Paul’s eyes oozed mirth, then turned gauging as he paced around John, appraising. John forced himself still, feeling his neck hair stand on end. “Can’t do anything anyone will see with the party tomorrow. Your pretty face is out.”

John grimaced at the appellation. Normally he’d think Paul just kidding, but lately…

He stepped over the meaning deftly. “Bit about the ribs never hurt anyone.” Although John wanted it to hurt. He wanted to ache with Paul’s strength and trace purple, blue and yellow mementos weeks later.

Paul smiled now, a layered expression. “I was thinking of something a bit more hidden.” His eyes darted down unabashedly to the profile of John’s arse, and John felt his stomach drop low and embarrassed. Paul ate up his expression, smile tilting. “Act like an unruly schoolboy…” His shoulders rose in a mocking, helpless shrug.

John had never considered it. The implication settled twisty-like in his stomach, a tangle of childhood memories now taking on a different, exciting tint. The threat of a caning shouldn’t have been hot, but now it lit him up like a Christmas candle.

“Call you ‘sir,’ then?” He realized after he said it that he was only half-joking.

“If you like,” Paul replied, smirking. He came around to the front again, hovering in John’s space. “It won’t be too rough. Alright with you?”

John’s lips felt too dry— there never was enough air in the room with Paul looking at him like _that._ Still, he didn’t know for sure if he’d like it. Caning was different to choking or restraint. Those were things that stirred his gut even away from the context of Paul’s heavy eyes. His heart thumped funny as he realized this was Paul’s idea. Childishly, he wanted to ask if Paul wanted John to want it, but couldn’t muster the courage. So much for the papers calling him the bravest Beatle.

Instead, John said, “We’ll give it a try, and if I don’t like it…”

“Then we’ll figure something else out,” Paul said, shrugging. “You can tap out; twice like before should do. Or just say stop.” His shoulders were easy, relaxed, and it made John uncertain, but also reminded him of his purpose in rooting out Paul’s investment in all this.

He fluttered his lashes daftly. “You’re just looking for an excuse to bend me over. There are better ways, mate. Alcohol’s a cunning one.” John grinned at the way Paul’s expression tightened, a stunning, fevered flash crossing his face. It took work for Paul to stuff it away again and regain his composure. A loud breath through the nose and out.

“Be better off just leaving you strung up somewhere,” Paul said, unfolding a grin for John. “But you’d like that too much. And this is a punishment, aye?”

Oh, Paul was on a good track there. That was something to consider later, in bed, with a handkerchief or tissue to sop up his mess. As it was, he felt himself stir in interest. He had been naughty for a reason, after all…

“Yes, sir,” he said, relishing the cadence of the words and how it made Paul’s lips part.

“Can you manage your own buttons, then?” Hoarser now.

If John needed another push, the swirling dark heat in Paul’s eyes was enough. His hands darted down and flicked the button and zip of his suit, letting the trousers pool about his ankles. He stepped out, kicking his shoes away in the process, disgusted and turned on by his own eagerness.

He stood in the middle of the room, restless and unsure, but Paul was there, armed with direction. “Hands against the wall then, legs apart.” John’s moist palms met the pink walls and he stared at the ornate moulding, trying hard not to think about the way _legs apart_ echoed in his mind. Paul rummaged about behind him —looking for a tool— and the anticipation made John’s toes curl.

He heard a little whistle in the air. Practice swings, he thought. He dared not look back lest he lose his nerve.

“All right?” Paul asked.

John’s mouth was dry with excitement; he nodded his head, unable to help the way his underwear-clad arse leaned out. A long cool length pressed against his skin. He only had a second to register the location before he heard whistling air and a lash striped over his thighs with aching surprise.

“Christ!” he uttered, shocked.

“Don’t remember giving you permission to say anything but stop, aye?” Paul said, in the voice he used to direct those he thought especially slow.

“Yes sir,” John mumbled, feeling the words spill with hot embarrassment over his lips. He earned another smack along his thighs and a grunt breached his lips.

“That’s two. All right then?”

“If you stop now, I’ll give _you_ a caning,” John growled. He earned a swift THWACK, harder this time. A whine pushed out. That would leave a mark.

“I was going to do ten, but let’s see how twenty does.” Paul swung back again, and the whistle came before the impact, sharp and flaying stings over his skin. Twenty. John moaned. Paul was perfectly merciless, and it was just how John liked him. John fell headlong into the stinging smacks of pain striping up and down his thighs.

“You knew what you were doing, didn’t you?” Paul asked, between hits. “Acting like a child instead of using your words. Am I right?”

Oh god, Paul’s voice made his knees feel weak, like they could bend all the way down to the ground if it would please him. “Yes sir,” he murmured.

“Don’t forget it.” Paul hit him again. “Keep on like this and I’ll have to take you in hand.”

John gasped, his flushed face and neck a sure match with the hot lines tracing his legs. Those hands intimately setting him to task.

This pain and shame was unlike any bar scrap or alleyway beating, and John soon realized he was unequipped to deal with such a thrashing. The blunt pain of fists buried in his ribs would be familiar and equal between them. The nearly delicate, dandyish strokes (as sharp as they ached) were utterly demeaning. Each rapid flay stripped away another layer of leather, another wall until he was soft flesh all over. It dragged John’s body low and forced his mind high as the pain drove out any excess thought and loose anxiety. Only Paul’s voice, tight and metered, broke the elevated silence of his mind.

“That’s twelve.” SMACK. “Thirteen.” SMACK. “Fourteen.” SMACK. John became one with the cycle, the prediction, unable to even brace himself for the impact as his legs started shaking. He moaned every time after the hit, and then before too, because Paul would lay out his implement gently over the area he was aiming for, the chilled touch so polarized from the pulsing, throbbing aches of the lash that followed.

Control. Paul was all tight control and intention, so at odds with John’s raw, untempered appetite.

“Nineteen,” Paul crooned. SMACK. “And twenty. There’s a good lad.”

Steps approached, and John gasped as Paul gently set his hand over John’s left thigh. His hand traced the raised lines along the edge, revealing tacitly the marks he’d gifted.

The thing was, John didn’t even like his thighs. They spread hideously when he sat, always overfilled his pant-leg, unlike the rest of the bean-pole Beatles. Paul’s thumb ran over the curve of them and he couldn’t move away from the way his flesh gave under the pressure; for once, didn’t even want to.

“Gorgeous. Just look at you, lad,” Paul purred. “Lovely, these.” He squeezed the contour of John’s thigh and John shook. All at once his plushness was as decadent as the baroque décor and he shivered, feeling pale blue velvet, oddly lovely. In Paul’s grip the flesh felt perfectly full, good, even. Paul’s grip chased all the way down the raised stripes, relishing each like a tactile memory before chasing up again like a second hit of a joint. John pressed back into his hand, helpless and stripped from any shame that wasn’t pleasurable. It soon grew apparent that not only was his cock hard, but it was sopping his underwear, drooling.

“All right, luv?” Paul craned down to whisper, breath soft on John’s ear.

John felt his lips moving, each word shaky. “Barely felt a thing, s-sir,” he bluffed. Paul’s grip tightened and John moaned.

“Thought you’d learned your lesson,” Paul murmured, breathy.

“Hardly.” John _was_ hard. Desperately. He risked raising his head sideways to see the shaded glimmer of Paul’s eyes; the way they read over his face and desires felt wonderful.

“I see you need a firmer hand.” God, _please._ He stumbled after Paul, half in a daze, feeling reluctant to move from such a blessed space, but blooming into delight as he saw that Paul was leading them to a peach settee resplendent with silk pillows after the French style.

Paul sat down and patted his own thigh. The intention was perfectly clear and John complied, legs trembling as they delivered him forward into more depravity.

“Gonna need a little more skin. Don’t want to hurt those pretty thighs too much.”

John was only too eager to shed his underwear, letting the thin fabric drag slowly over his erection as it popped free. Paul took in the whole of him, every excess and drip, and he smiled. “Come ‘ead, then.”

John clambered over, letting Paul’s sure hands guide him into a humiliating sprawl, raising his arse up in surrender. A cream cushion provided a place for him to bury his head and forearms as Paul’s fingers carefully pulled up his white shirt up to rest on the small of his back. Cool night air chased over his arse and the stinging welts painting his thighs. When he was settled, Paul rested a warm hand on John’s cheeks; the same sweet warning from before. It flexed there a moment before vanishing.

THUMP. The close-palm slap shook through his body like thunder. Whatever Paul had used before was thinner and lashed, but his palm was blunt and heavy, a powerful weapon. Paul laid into him again; it thudded through his core, jarring John and eliciting a hoarse moan.

John canted forward and gasped as he made contact with something. _Oh._ Paul was hard. John ached, relief mingled with intense humiliation sending tears up into his eyes. His head had been too spun around to notice as he was settled down, but with each smack he was sent jolting into Paul’s throbbing erection, proof of his pleasure with John’s compliance; his striped skin and his red arse. John had forgotten his aim, so consumed with their games, but now it sank in with sweet understanding.

Paul loved it too, just as much. He’d _meant_ what he said. John felt heady with relief as Paul switched cheeks for more jarring smacks.

“Six. I don’t mean to be unkind,” Paul murmured. “But naughty lads…” He grunted when John jolted into him, and this too felt symbiotic, beautiful.

“Seven.” Paul counted. John was sniffling, feeling stripped like a child, ashamed, but so, so high up. “Eight.” He stroked the curve of John’s arse, and then, “Nine.” John was too on edge, too high, too relieved, too embraced. When “Ten” came rattling down the line, he rammed into Paul’s erection and shot off like a freight train, spilling desperately into Paul’s lap as he sniffled and gasped. Paul helped him through it, arms around John’s shoulder and shushing him gently as he petered out, strength gone.

Paul helped him into a sprawl against the couch, looking over-bright; the light made prismatic by the water edging John’s eyes. Mentally, John was coasting sky-high. His arse beneath him ached, thighs stinging, but the reminder was immaculate as he slowly came down from the tinging adrenaline. Settling in his bones again, he finally shook off Paul’s arm and started for the bump straining Paul’s zip.

His hand was caught half-way. “You don’t have to…” Aye, but John wanted to. He wanted desperately to make Paul gasp and moan, but Paul shook his head. More firmly, he said, “No.” There was no arguing with that tone.

“Please?” John whined, inarticulate in his wants.

“We didn’t discuss it for me either, see?” Words, Paul always wanted words. John would give him any words he wanted now, would give him McCartney-Lennon if he let John service him. Hell, John would address whatever wonderful glimmering thing was dangling above their heads like the sword of Damocles, damning but undeniable, if it meant he could be _this_ for Paul. But he wasn’t having it, and John suspected even if he said all that and more, Paul wouldn’t take it because of how washed out John felt.

Paul lowered his own pants, eyes on John’s face that felt thin and sheer like cellophane. His hand slipped against John’s come as he eased his erection out from his underwear. John writhed with desire on seeing its upward bend, wanting desperately to hold the proof that Paul was just as messed up, John’s perfect complement; but Paul’s grip on his behavior remained firm and oh, John wanted to please.

“So obedient,” Paul murmured, and John shivered.

“You make me so,” John replied, earning a low groan from Paul, who reached down, giving himself a slow stroke. It was smeared wet, and John didn’t know if it was he or Paul that had done it. His skin rasped a little and John exhaled with it.

“Use mine,” John uttered, loving the heat in Paul’s eyes as his hand dipped into John’s spilled mess, then returned to his own dick with renewed slickness.

He came not thirty seconds later, spilling over himself and John’s seed. It was outrageous how hot it made John. If he weren’t so exhausted, he’d be raring to go again.

Paul sighed, pleased, as he tucked himself back in. Those made the second pair of pants that John’d ruined, and John was gratified by the trend.

“You seemed talkative,” Paul observed. “More than last time, I mean.”

He looked away, granting privacy as John brushed lingering wetness from his eyes. “It was different. I dunno why.” He wondered if it was because of the lack of restraints, or the adrenaline from the beating.

“Still good?” Paul asked.

“I was higher than Dylan,” John confirmed.

Paul seemed deeply pleased by this, his lips quirking in a smile he couldn’t quite swallow. Figures that Paul would be just as pleased by a good performance at this as at their usual gigs. He moved the subject along before John could tease him. “Not too sore?”

John was perfectly sore. That wasn’t Paul’s question, so he shook his head. “Might stick to the pool tomorrow. Save me some sitting.” Paul’s eyebrows knitted together and John smiled. “Quite the memento. Could do short-shorts if it wouldn’t make Georgie jealous.”

“Christ, but you’re something.” Paul relaxed. His eyes were scanning though, indexing. “You look absolutely knackered.” John was. “Come on, let’s get some water and head to bed. I think— Ack.”

He held up his hand which had slipped on a pillow, and looked mortified when the stain came to light. They both startled up, John with a sudden ache that he ignored, as they examined at the immaculate eighteenth-century styled settee. Paul’s pants had caught the large part of John’s mess, but one blue silk pillow revealed an incriminating stain.

“Fuck. What are we going to do?” Paul asked, all at once back to his usual self. John couldn’t help but smile.

He laughed, still strung out from endorphins. “Leave a note, of course. ‘Ta, we used the place well’ and all that.”

“Can you imagine?” Paul rotated the pillow. “Don’t think it’s authentic, do you?”

“What’s to say that isn’t an authentic stain? Louis the Fourteenth and all that.”

“The Sun King’s authentic wet spot?” Paul’s grin faltered as John hobbled slightly. He sidled nearer, hand slinking down and merely brushing the red lines skirted by white shirt. John shivered, his head ducking down. “You sure it wasn’t too much?”

He swallowed hard, his vision consumed by wood-paneled floors. “Mate, I coulda lived there for hours.” It was true.

Paul’s grip settled and his thumb stroked a particularly thick line. John looked forward to discovering the pattern himself, but there was nothing better than feeling Paul map it out. 

“Maybe another time,” Paul whispered. He stepped away, cleared his throat. “Water. Let’s get some water.”

John submitted himself to Paul’s tender care, drinking glass after glass and leaning into every accidental and intentional brush against his painted backside. It should have been erotic, but in this after-space it felt intimate instead, weaving a whole different tangle of emotions around John’s mind. He looked over the rim of his cup, eyeing how Paul’s apparent calmness was belied by the way his eyes flickered up and down, assessing and possessing.

“You’re like me,” John murmured, dizzy with pleasure. Getting off on being choked was odd; popping off on caning someone was more depraved still.

Paul’s gaze snapped to John’s, looking flustered and soft. “Piss off.”

John smiled to himself, staring into the cup. “I thought, because of the…” he gestured around his throat. “I thought you didn’t…”

“It’s not all about getting off, is it?” Paul answered. “Sometimes it’s just about the intensity.” John realized then that in the same way that bringing himself low sent him high, the space also existed for Paul. He reached it while helping John get what he needed. That they also got off on it was serendipity itself. John sighed out his former concern and breathed in equilibrium. 

This, whatever it was, wasn’t one-sided, and John had to consider again that it was more than just power that was rising and falling between them. He tried to muster something to address the unevenness of his feelings, but every sentence felt too blunt a tool. If he tried with his clumsy mouth, he’d pop this balloon of good feeling stretching over them, and John was too cowardly to leave its shade. He curled there, stretching his body and giving a little groan, watching Paul’s pink tongue peek out to wet his lips.

Oh, they were in trouble… but not yet.

+

The next day, John spent an inordinate time in front of the mirror admiring his constellation of red marks. Each touch elicited a memory of Paul’s cool/hot fingers gripping John’s flesh, and he had to retreat for a wank before attempting to dress again. He slipped on his swim trunks and some knee-length denim they’d worn for the _Help!_ shoot -- if he got into the pool wearing them, no one would think it too odd. It was early still, so he shoved his goggles on as well.

The other lads were already in the kitchen by the time John slunk down. A few pieces of toast stacked on a plate called his name and he took the whole lot to the table, where George was reading the paper and Ringo was sorting through some postcards. Paul was fixing tea, his dark eyes watching John’s descent into sitting, consuming each subtle wince and hiss. A cup slid across the table, Paul’s doing, and John dipped his head in gratitude.

“All right, John?” George asked, brow raised.

“He’s just sore from laying about the floor at the party,” Paul snipped.

“Met Groucho though. A little waywardness was well worth it,” John replied, laying emphasis on his last words and watching Paul fidget. Satisfied, John helped himself to jam and marmalade, nearly dropping the spoon when he caught a glimpse of something long and shiny.

“Christ Macca, you on crusade in America?”

Paul hefted the long rapier, silver with a winding decorative handguard. The elaborate sword could only be a parcel of Zsa Zsa Gabor’s ridiculous decoration scheme, but that didn’t explain why it was at the breakfast table.

Paul grinned before pulling on a contrite expression that didn’t quite fit his face. “Well, I was fiddling with it this morning and I’m a bit worried I’ve bent this part, see?” He set the sword aside and raised a long black sheath that curved in. John felt his stomach drop hot. So that was the implement of Paul’s punishment. What an utter tart, waving it about the table. From the smirk on Paul’s lips, he knew all too well what it was doing to John. His thighs burned beneath his jeans, feeling like they might set the chair alight. Paul’s tongue dipped out of his lips for a moment, watching him; still hungry despite all this food before them.

“This house is bloody amazing. Just like a film set,” Ringo remarked, cheery.

The comment snapped whatever electric tension was hovering between John and Paul, and the latter unbent the sheath as best he could before disappearing to replace it. Prior to that, he nudged a glass of water to John with a meaningful look. John sipped tepidly at it before dropping his head to the table.

They needed to get control of themselves. It was getting embarrassing to have his blood set to boil so often. But then, John mused, hand going to his pocket to fondle the drug dropped sugar cubes in his pocket, being out of control was such a pleasure.

Christ, he couldn’t wait to drop Lysergic. He bet his arse would feel like a supernova rubbing against his jeans. More than that, he was sure Paul would take to the revelations as John did, like a duck to water, let it expand his mind and take their music to a new, unknown place.

However, later, when John revealed his treasure trove of LSD sugar cubes, Paul glanced over them before saying, “No thanks. Prefer to keep a bit of control, me.”

John’s mouth went dry of replies, staying oddly quiet through George’s ensuing arguments. They pawned the fourth off on Neil instead. Yes, even on Lysergic, with girls dancing around, the shape of the universe bending into contours unfamiliar, John spiraling into everything—Paul was in control and watching. Like before, keeping his hand on John’s neck and lifting him up and away. From his place in the pool, John caught eyes with Paul and shivered.

He couldn’t really argue with control when it looked so good on Paul.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
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> ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: AFTERCARE
> 
> Paul needs to take care of John for his aftercare and that's all right. Read more about it online or on this [ mini primer ](https://fingersfallingupwards.dreamwidth.org/1409.html).
> 
> Also, the Beatles fandom has been doin' wrong not having them get it on in that mansion more often. The room I talk about DOES EXIST! Please find the pictures [ here!](https://www.architecturaldigest.com/story/zsa-zsa-gabor-former-residence-bel-air) It's also true that the Beatles were at a party with Dean Martin and Groucho Marx! 
> 
> Again, I am so grateful for all the support and insightful comments. Every word really does mean so much to me! It keeps this fic rolling! Do say a few words if you feel like it and I'll happily respond~ 💜


	5. Crushability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys return home. Paul gets hungry, John gets a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blessed be thy beta, for they art jonjie and it is by them that this fic be-eth readble.

+

Before departing the airport for their respective homes, Paul pulled John aside and said, “I’ll ring you, yeah? We can talk about the next album...and whatever else.” There was only one thing that could be.

“Sort the tit-bits?” John made a daft face, earning him a shove towards a waiting Cyn. He was pleased that Paul meant to continue with their games, even if it meant pedantic discussion.

John still didn’t care much for talking, though Paul had demonstrated the profound benefits of a little dialogue. It couldn’t be said he wasn’t persuasive, the way his lips twitched and wrapped slyly around a _sk me nicely._ John himself would rather stumble into their scenarios, instead of planning it all out. Christ, ruined all the fun, didn’t it? It had nothing to do with the way his mind wandered to Paul coming upon him and shoving him down roughly, standing over him with a foot on his sternum... Not all of it, anyway.

He’d been on his guard, waiting for Paul to ring up when they got back home and settled into London and Surrey respectively. The call didn’t come, so after a few days he grudgingly hoped for a line, signaling the dread talk. On the fifth day he was unabashedly gasping for it. He knew they were settling in, but Paul must have realized that with a month off, now was the time to pursue this game of theirs.

There was nothing to stop John from picking up the phone himself, it was only that he liked it when Paul instigated things. He couldn’t just ring and _ask_ to be stepped on— that wasn’t how it bloody worked, even if the looming walls of Kenwood made him crave it all the more. Ringing up Ringo and George revealed in passing that they’d both heard from Paul, which made him even more frustrated. John tried to pass the time by dropping some lysergic, but for some reason where before it had widened his horizons, in his current mood it led only to aggravation and anxiousness. Jet lag, Cyn said, pasting a thin worried grin over her face.

He veritably snapped when she told him Paul was on the line on the sixth day.

Whatever he was expecting when Paul called, it wasn’t a meet-up for chips at a place halfway to nowhere that John only just remembered from their early tours. He grudgingly took the Rolls, feeling mulish at being called out so far. When he arrived, Paul was already seated at a little table away from the chippy, setting down two newspaper-wrapped parcels. He seemed cleaner than on tour, dressed ostentatiously beneath his mac now that he wasn’t constricted to a single suitcase.

John slumped across from him, unable to help the crossness of his face. Paul smiled, all easy Northern manners that tugged at John’s memory unwillingly.

“All right, John?”

He grunted, pulling one of the bundles closer and uncovering it. Heat and steam rushed out with the thick, savory aroma of fried food.

Paul said, “And Julian? Talking a bit more than you, I hope?”

John groaned. “Can’t barely stop him. He’s like one of those wind-up toys, if they could self-wind.”

“Takes after his father, does he?” Paul dug his fingers into his gleaming chips, grinning as he pulled out a few. Loved chips, did Paul. The exhale of excessive pleasure when he swallowed was too much for John, who was reminded of his uncomfortable mental wanderings of late. He averted his eyes, focusing on two women who shuffled in the queue, gabbing just audibly about someone’s accidental pregnancy. All “poor thing” and “didn’t hardly know what to say.”

“…was thinking,” Paul said into the side of his face.

John grunted. He was more interested in the women. They were both sliding into middle age, a bit paunchy, hair overdone, but John liked it, thought of drawing them in further exaggeration.

“Of you, tied ankle to wrist somewhere drafty.”

John’s attention snapped to Paul, a jolt shooting about under his skin. Christ. This was more like it. “Oh, were you now? Not tied at the front?”

“No, behind ya. See if we can’t make a pretty circle of you. Something taut, I think?” Paul’s hand dipped back into the chips, reemerging shiny with grease. Like a child, he shoved a few into his mouth at once. So greedy.

“And where…where might this happen, then? Hardly space at the recording studio for any shapes, let alone taut ones.”

Paul smiled. “Can just picture you on the rug all strung out. Different than usual, though.” John swallowed. He felt over conscious of the low tittering of the women behind them. He and Paul must be just as barely audible to them as vice versa. “I had a bed brought into the attic at mine. The room’s mostly soundproof, y’know.”

He’d wanted to be cross with Paul, but he couldn’t stop the way pleasure settled in his chest, finally letting the anxious birds pecking at his ribs out into the sky. The pleasure ran deeper, though, because Paul hadn’t been sitting on his arse. He’d been _planning_. If John’d known, he would have spent his idle frustrated hours fantasizing more specifically of rich, horrible things for Paul to do to him, instead of whatever nightmare he’d worked himself up to instead.

“All right, John?” Paul asked, watching him. John half expected him to stick his hand out and feel if his forehead felt warm.

He shoved his discontent into the back of his mind and offered a smile. No point in complaining about him going off for six days. Was hardly a long time, was it? John focused instead on the pleasantly hot itch of his ears, the way Paul leaned in like he could crash into John any moment.

“And the…the silks you mentioned. Any luck finding those while shopping?” The women settled at a table away from them, their conversation dimming with consumption of their meal. John’s must already be cold, but he wasn’t hungry, not for that.

“Oh yes, great long red ones. They’ll look lovely crossing over you. I think you’ll like them.” Oh, John imagined so. “Eat your chips,” Paul ordered, breaking off a flaky piece of cod. “I have another few things as well.”

In this way, John ate every chip and pale morsel as Paul murmured at a volume almost overhearable about restraints across John’s chest, gags for his mouth, maybe even _rope._ After every suggestion he would ask John’s thoughts, as though he couldn’t pick them up clean off his face. John felt ready to shake apart just from hearing them, doubly so with Paul’s eyes glowing and eating every one of John’s hot, helpless reactions. John didn’t know Paul’s sources of goods and knowledge, but he trusted him to be discreet. More than any of them, Paul had a distinct love-affair with their image.

“Seems you’re up for anything,” Paul said with a satisfied smile as he finished his rundown.

“You’d be too,” John replied, gaze cutting to the ladies. “If you…. If you experienced it.”

Paul’s shoulders rose and fell like a lazy tide, a bland look on his face. “Doesn’t seem much like my cup of tea.”

John suspected as much, and didn’t overly mind. He liked being low, liked the way it took his mind away. Paul found some place similar when he was peering over John’s supplication, but his eyes were too present and intense for it to be the same stunning path to Jupiter John explored. A part of him had perhaps entertained a thought or two about bending Paul over for such a caning, to see the pert fullness of his arse glow red… but John was pleased enough with what they had. While John hadn’t been planning for such a discussion, his thoughts and right hand had wandered since their last time.

“And what you said before, about leaving me done up somewhere for hours?” he asked, voice high and soft despite the tenseness of their language, a disguise for this mound of secrets shifting between them.

“Oh, could do. If you’re being particularly unmanageable. Maybe I’ll even run a few errands while you’re trussed up, just so you learn your lesson,” Paul said, greasy fingers disappearing one by one into his mouth for a casual and indecent tongue cleaning.

The thought made John’s stomach knot. Without even the possibility of begging with his eyes for some kind of relief, Paul walking around town knowing John was helplessly waiting for his return. His cock, already hardening up, stiffened further. He adjusted his jeans, keenly aware of Paul’s smile as the pink edges of his tongue worked around his fingers.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.” He licked his own lips, mirroring Paul’s action. “Only, don’t tell me when you’re doing it, right? Ruins the surprises if it’s all planned out.”

Paul frowned, his hand finally dropping away from his mouth. “We have to talk about some of it, at least,” he argued, ever reasonable. “Never know when you might not like something. You’re like that sometimes, you know. A bit picky.”

John rolled his eyes. Fancy Paul telling him what he did and didn’t like. “Not about this. It’s better if these things just unfold, more exciting like for me.” John tried to explain. “I can always tap out, but… look, if we were throwing you a birthday party you might expect it, right, but if we make it at least partially a surprise it’s better, isn’t it?”

“It’s more exciting,” Paul conceded. “But it’s a rotten surprise if it’s a bad time.” His mien was all reasonableness, but John saw how much he’d rather know about such a party, would rather have a hand in planning it if he could. A smile crawled over his face.

“Being ready is dull,” John replied. “Figures for you though. Everyone knows how you like control.”

Paul leaned back into his seat. “Well, I hate to bore you, John,” he sniffed.

John couldn’t help grinning. “Oh aye, you can just tell, can’t you?” he said, shifting his hips a little to draw attention to where the fabric drew tight. Paul’s pursed lips loosened, and he grinned.

“Shall we head off now then?” John asked. “Love to see what you’ve done with the place.”

“Eager,” Paul murmured. He looked down the plane of John’s body for a moment. Something stirred behind his eyes, concern. “Have a kip at mine, eh? You look pale.”

“Yes, Sister McCartney.” John rolled his eyes.

“Have you been stressed lately?” Paul asked, picking at it again. What did it matter if John had spiraled in on himself while Paul kept him on tenterhooks? He had Paul now, his focus, the twist of his schemes. There was nothing that needed saying. He focused on the burn of being aroused in denim instead and shrugged his shoulders.

“Follow you to yours, then?”

Paul looked dissatisfied, but he allowed the shift. “I took a cab, so we’re taking yours. We’d better go now, think we’re attracting notice.”

John’s neck jerked around, and he noticed the women now whispering between themselves, pointing and gesturing towards their table. He half-smiled back. Mentally he tried to will his erection away— Easter Sunday, nausea, Charles Dickens’ novels— but it wasn’t working, not with how smug Paul looked. It set him off all over. If he’d stop with the eyes, maybe John could settle himself, but Paul was still playing.

“Paul,” he hissed.

“Sorry mate, is there a problem?” Paul rolled his shoulders beneath his jacket. Expressionless, he said, “You can always tap out, y’know.”

John shivered. He could lay a couple raps against the table and save himself some humiliation, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He’d waited five days for this.

“Go on then,” Paul encouraged, reading his silence and flushed ears. “I’ll be right after.” There was nothing soft living in his eyes, only enjoyment. Paul was still _playing._ John’s mouth felt dry as Paul said again, more firmly, “Go on.”

John wobbled to his feet, trying to angle his hips away from the women who were definitely staring now in starstruck appraisement. John hunched to hide the swell of his pants but a hand fell to his shoulder, directing, commanding...steering him half towards the table. For a terrible, heady moment John feared they’d do an impromptu signing. His blood surged, the potential embarrassment of the situation only making his pants tighter and more obvious. Just as sweat gathered on his brow, Paul adjusted their path, aiming instead for the car park.

John stumbled forward. Each stretch and bunch of the fabric over his straining prick felt exaggerated, too much. Adrenaline kept him moving, even when he caught Paul raising a hand to flirtatiously wave at the women as they passed. Could they see? They must; how he was bulging, his indecent stagger. Mortification and arousal battled in his stomach, the conflict only fanning the flames higher. Paul squeezed and relaxed his grip sporadically.

They reached his Rolls Royce, and John set a hand against the painted top to steady his nerves.

“Keys.” Paul held a hand out. John made a face, but Paul tsked. “I don’t like you driving on a good day, you loon.” His eyes dropped down, hovering on the jut of John’s jeans. “Besides, it’s a bit of a drive back to mine. Can you really wait that long?”

He wasn’t… surely he wasn't implying…

“Demanding, aren’t we?” John said, ignoring the way his hand trembled with dizzy anticipation as he dug the keys out from his pocket.

“Backtalk?” Paul asked in just that way of his.

“Only for you, sir.” He scrambled into the passenger seat, getting settled in. He pulled the belt over and latched it. Wouldn’t do to go flying through the windshield like this, if Paul did mean…

Tongue wetting his lips, John looked over to Paul, who was adjusting the mirrors one by one, taking his time and sparing another wave out the window at the now giggling women. Like he was the bleeding Queen’s chauffeur.

They pulled away from the chippy and started down the road towards London. John fidgeted. The anticipation was killing him, and he rocked into the place where the belt crossed near the head of his prick. Couldn’t Paul start already?

“You were patient,” Paul mused. “But then, you weren’t very friendly to those ladies, were you? Might’ve been fans, for all you know.”

“Come on,” he groaned.

“I can excuse your behavior, I ‘spose.” His gaze flicked left. “You need this, after all, don’t you?”

John’s neck ducked and he inhaled jaggedly. The way Paul could say these things, like a statement of fact. Painting John’s depravity in the air with words and leaving it out to dry. Obscene, it was.

“Go on, take it out,” Paul said. John’s hands flew to his zip and he unveiled his erection as quickly as he could. The seatbelt was uncomfortable, restraining, and the angle wasn’t good really, but it was perfect at the moment. Perfect with Paul’s easy instructions.

“Gently now. We’ve still a way to go,” Paul said as he turned onto the streets. “Shouldn’t want you to go off too soon.”

“No?” John challenged as he started touching himself.

“Jane says I’m practically married to my work… I might get busy for a few weeks.” Paul shrugged. John grunted with the warning. Not bloody likely, not after what they’d discussed today, not after all the twisty terrible things Paul had promised to do to John.

Paul smiled, his hands intoxicating as they worked the wheel. In his lap, Paul’s prick was swollen, but it didn’t seem to arrest him the way his own throbber did John. Some people had all the control, John thought to himself, feeling decidedly pathetic and all the more aroused for it as he stroked his prick clumsily around the belt.

“Steady on, don’t want to end up in the papers,” Paul mused. John risked a glance out the window. There were people on the street, mothers and prams, old ladies with their hair wrapped, all glancing at them as they rolled along. And then there was John, face flushed, petting his erection with deep heaving breaths as he fought to control his expression. He tried not to look down lest he draw attention to something they couldn’t see but could suspect.

“Such a flashy car you have. Car like this, wouldn’t be surprised if the whole street stares at us. People come out from the houses to see this roll by in Liverpool," Paul drawled. John had to duck his head again, wetness smearing his fist as he tried to control himself.

“We close?” John asked, labored.

“We’re almost there. Just a bit more.”

He squeezed the base of his cock, trying to put it off, but he felt a million eyes peeking through even though he knew his bottom half was well-covered. Then there was Paul, smooth expression, eyes not even looking towards the passenger seat. Just working the wheel and gearstick. No one would realize if not for his glittering, relishing eyes. Paul, who was so keen about their image, who was the most afraid of ruining it, hanging it out the window just to watch John squirm and grunt. That more than anything made him burn. Paul wanted it _that badly._ John shouldn’t have looked.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

Paul spared one casual glance at John, his soaking hand and twitching dick, and smiled.

“Little more, John.”

Christ. John was perishing here, absolutely shaking with a need to come. They were entering London proper, birds and businessmen cluttering the streets, stoplights and police officers, and John Lennon on the edge of orgasm.

“Paul!” It scraped out.

Paul said, “There’s a good, patient lad. Come on then.”

John could have cried. Instead, he leaned over and buried his face into the shoulder of Paul’s mac to hide the way his face wrenched and twisted in overdone pleasure as come squirted through his fingers, over his pants. Oh god, oh god.

“There’s a good lad,” Paul said, softer. John groaned and kept his eyes shut as he rode out the adrenaline and orgasm. He didn’t dare look out into the streets for fear of what unveiled shame and relief might be coating his face.

He didn’t realize they’d stopped until it dimly registered that Paul was petting his hair. Tilting his head, he peered up at Paul, whose expression was absolutely brimming with pleasure at John’s obedience. High from power and control.

“Jesus wept, Paul,” he uttered.

“All right, John?” Paul asked cheerily. John gave him a dark look he barely felt. Oh, he was all right.

John stretched a little, feeling safer now that they were parked in Cavendish. His jeans were a mess so he waited while Paul checked the house. When it was clear that they had it to themselves, John hustled in. Paul didn’t falter for a moment, practically skipping after him. He was glowing, still that bit high, his eyes dilated...

“A shower, and then the nap, I think,” Paul said. “No! A bath. Let me run the water.”

“Whatever you like,” John said. He didn’t want a bath particularly, but he knew better than to say such when Paul was doing his thing after their game. He was feeling exhausted even as he started on the tea in the kitchen. The adrenaline had left him drained, but pleased. No one could properly see him, he knew, with the car that high, but the way Paul had run it was stunning and shivery.

John took a deep drink and smiled into his teacup. All this, just for half-implying Paul was boring. He’d have to challenge Paul’s pride more often if it earned him such spontaneity. Despite not wishing to leave any component of their interplay unexamined, Paul grasped John’s request for surprise in both hands and then wrung it like a towel. Wasn’t one to back down from a challenge, was he? Still, there was something missing in all this, something that kept John just barely edgy and uncertain even in the washes of pleasure.

Having finished his tea (and a glass of water that Paul pressed into his palm) he shuffled into the master bathroom, where the bath was still filling.

After the door shut, he hesitated for a moment, then turned and pressed his ear against the door. He listened to the distant sounds of Paul’s puttering, him drinking water and then... a rustling of clothes and low, choked-off moans. Yes, that was it. He could just picture it, Paul with a hanky or old shirt hovering, ready to catch the spill of his own overwrought orgasm. It came and went with a groan. Afterwards, John heard the shift of a cigarette pack and wanted to be there to light it for Paul, to be on the other end of the filter, to complete their wretched circle and make it clean and encompassing.

He shivered against the wood. Despite the decadent excess of all he had, John wanted. Oh, how he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
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> HALFWAY THERE!
> 
> Me, drafting: no one gets off this chapter! Just talking, yay~  
> John: UM.  
> To be fair: the video of the lads eating chips and Paul licking his fingers is [immaculate](https://fingersfallingupwards.tumblr.com/post/618639966964269056/niplop-the-beatles-i-feel-fine-second)
> 
> This week has been a bit rough for me (migraines) so thank you for all the enthusiasm and support! It really does make it worth the effort💜 Leave a message if you feel inclined and I'll gladly get back to you~❣️


	6. Crushed Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They nest in Cavendish. Paul explores and John trembles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Infinite are the mysteries of the universe. Also infinite is my appreciation for my beta johnjie! All hail!
> 
> Happy 100 kudos!!!! Thank you for the support!❤️❤️❤️

+

Somehow, John knew things were coming up for him and Paul, with this month free from band commitments. He could forgive Paul if his nerves had been frayed in the first couple of days, because now the two of them settled into an orbital path that was consistent and electric. John relished their steady arc; everything leading him to Paul, and Paul to him. Songwriting, something Paul could never keep off his mind, meant early morning calls or visits to Kenwood composing which in turn led to invitations back to Cavendish. The car ride over (Paul always insisting on taking the wheel to turn between his fine hands) lent privacy to their conversations, and let them avoid eye-contact as they discussed turning the other out with John’s head bent in supplication, Paul’s newest acquisition of a tool or toy…

And then, after, Paul would hardly let him return home after their interplays, dehydrated as he was, so it was an overnighter in the attic or guest room, and in the morning an eager repetition. The more they did the more momentum grew for this game between them, and it was sending them headlong down a hill neither of them quite knew the elevation of. John didn’t care to know.

The central setting was Cavendish, and it was all either of them needed and more. Despite every upgrade and lavish embellishment, Kenwood paled in John’s mind with the tight, lopsided charm of Paul’s townhouse, ostensibly bought for him to share with Jane. Things sometimes start one way and evolve into something else, like a drunken scuffle in an alley that swelled beyond expectation. John couldn’t help but feel that Cavendish was really all Paul and John’s, to make music or to spend hours honing their interplay. John and Paul space for John and Paul business. John almost wanted to throw Kenwood over the wayside, settle into something identical nearby. The knowledge that Paul wouldn’t come with the deed of sale tempered his impulse.

“This pillow doesn’t really go with the rest,” Jane said one day when they were talking over renovations and decorations. “It’s a little too pastel for the rest of the colors.”

John, from his place in an armchair fiddling with a guitar, snapped his head up in time to see her gesturing to a familiar blue silk pillow. _Oh._ Evidently Paul had not been able to fix their mess, and had instead lifted a memento from Zsa Zsa Gabor’s mansion _._ The unstained side faced up, and John had a suspicion that if Jane picked it up she’d get a nasty surprise, like lifting a rock to reveal the crawly things living underneath. He almost wanted her to look, to watch her puzzled face drop into disgust.

“It was Louis the Fourteenth’s,” Paul explained to her. His focus was all on John, secretive and cool, even on the brink of discovery. She rolled her eyes and moved on, oblivious to Paul’s exhale. John felt glowy to the core of him. 

John watched her puttering on as he gloated in the armchair. Paul wouldn’t dare touch her the way he did John, not Jane with her upper-class sensibilities and her unyielding self-respect. She didn’t even let Paul pick her clothes in the controlling way he used to run his girlfriends up in Liverpool. No, she’d never earn a firm hand from him… that part of Paul, the part wreathed in sumptuous control, belonged only to John.

The pillow soon migrated into the space John and Paul carved out between them— the attic. Not only was it a sound studio, with a piano and several of Paul’s guitars, but Paul tucked in a little bed along one alcove, seemingly slapdash with the rest of the decor. Only John knew better. Sometimes, they spent the day working through chords and tossing music back and forth between them, building a structure of sound to topple the charts and challenge themselves. But, when John felt his creativity dwindling, or on days when the walls of Kenwood encroached his mind like a suburban vice, they moved everything out of the way, brought the bed to the center of the room, and stepped into what felt like a parallel world where language and hesitation could be suspended for something more meaningful. Paul didn’t change overmuch, but the strength in his voice carried a different weight, his hand a different touch, the same, yet not. It made John twist.

Lately, they had breached some unknown vocal barrier in their perversity. They hadn’t discussed it, but it became mutual law that during their game John wasn’t allowed to come until Paul said so, until Paul’s voice escorted him to the precipice of release and then nudged him off. Paul spanked, he teased, he ignored, he riled, and now he held the keys to John’s orgasm. The thought should have been a petrifying one, but instead it was just one more thing John didn’t have to manage himself, didn’t have to be a slave to, not when Paul was handling it and handling it well.

To be frank, John had rarely foregone anything, even as a youth. If some bird was there, wet and willing, why deny himself convenient pleasure? He was sorely unequipped for the blinding orgasms after Paul had worked him up and down the path to release over and over until, at lengths extreme and obscene, Paul gave the word and John could finally unravel. It was stunning, exhausting, left him thinking he could never get off again...

Until Paul was standing over him later in the week, Cuban-heeled boots pressing into John’s cheek as he lay thrust out on his stomach. Hearing them click and vibrate against the floorboards as Paul walked around him, stepped between his spread thighs, and then leveraged the square heel just so over John’s back was like a dream.

He almost got splinters in his dick from that one. After saying so, Paul had near pissed himself laughing, and John smiled. It was warm and easy, despite their dizzying heights. Even with the time that had passed and confirming that Paul was more than just alright with things, John marveled that they could delve into their strange game of intimacy and vulnerability, and still pull out as mates. Still write songs, fix tea, crack jokes— even after John begged Paul for permission to touch his throbbing prick after an hour of intimate torture and Paul grinned, said no and put a boot-clad foot on John’s arse until he memorized every corner and edge of the heel.

Despite all that John surrendered, despite the way he made himself small, he wasn’t lesser for it, not in Paul’s eyes. Something of the dressing gown wrapped around him in New York remained with them.

It troubled John mentally, making sense of that. Maybe it was genuine, but also maybe it was something to do with Paul’s ability to sequester parts of himself and opinions off, a knack John had always envied. Still, Paul’s steady manner meant everything to John, kept his doubts and self-loathing just on the edge of his awareness where he could manage and cull them. Paul kept things in balance, the momentum of the band and the outside world moving even when John would rather forget about it.

It did help that John’s head felt clear after their games. The little imps that stabbed his brain in a constant anxious rush of perversity and self-loathing had to lower their pitchforks in awe of John’s newest obscene reality. It left him feeling clean-headed, so exorcised of pent-up unrest that he was almost always kinder when he got home. Playing with Julian, as stilted as it still felt, was just that bit easier with the quiet of his mind.

And, at the end of their games, no matter where Paul had taken him emotionally, Paul would crawl into bed with John, just like in New York, and wait for John to come down from that place among the clouds. John didn’t always get off; sometimes the embarrassment only led to the crawling high that he vibrated in for lifetimes, making him feel soft and peeled back and foreign to himself, even as he distantly knew that this shade of himself didn’t appear or vanish when their play started or ended.

Paul seemed content to pour his planning energy in the next album, and the overflow (and there always was with him, the rat bastard) into their game. His eyes would light with a feverish excitement when certain letters with foreign stamps arrived, or when he was struck by some twisted wonderful thing to try. A creativity like Paul’s applied to this was a frightening thing to behold, meaning of course John got off on it.

Jane was still living at her parent’s home and was often off on tour, leaving large swatches of time for John and Paul to paint each other into strange corners, away from prying eyes.

John was in just such a corner today in Cavendish, the eve before his birthday. He should be helping Cyn with the planning, but here he was, slumped against the leather cuffs Paul had attached to the headboard, a piece of metal keeping his legs spread humiliatingly wide. It hinted at something sexual, something so queer and embarrassing that it made John shiver when Paul first attached him. Despite the splay of him, Paul didn’t play into that angle and John almost wasn’t sure if he wanted him to or not. He still had his underwear, not that the thin white fabric offered much modesty, but it did keep his drooling attraction under wraps until Paul ordered him to unveil it.

Often John drifted out of language during their little interplays, but today Paul had attached a gag to his mouth, leaving him vividly conscious of the way nothing need or could be said. The burden of speech was relieved and John marinated in the freedom. He let his mind chase the high as he spun out, saliva streaking his chin shamefully hot.

Paul, for his part, was sitting in a chair and fiddling with a thumb piano, seemingly ignorant of the way John was sprawled wide and almost naked over the bed. He vacillated in a tuned dance from completely ignoring John’s hot mess to owning it with chastising or praising hands. If there was anything John had learned, it was that it was one thing for millions of press, critics and fans to tell him he was good, and another for Paul McCartney to hold his strained, gasping, awful self and whisper that John was _good._

John’s erection had lifted and lagged with the ebb and flow of Paul’s attention as he dipped in and out of whatever unholy space he often breached. Nonetheless, even strung up sweet and high in his mind, when Paul stood John shook from his languor. He was utterly attuned to his willing captor.

“Think I’ll pop off for a bit.”

Their discussion weeks ago careened into John’s mind suddenly and he realized the meaning. Paul was going to leave him. It meant that Paul would walk around the bottom of the house, doing whatever with the knowledge that John was trussed up and helpless waiting for him. John would desperately have to wonder when he would return, unable to get relief for himself or anything else. Back then, it had twisted John hot.

Now though, John felt himself cracking. The only meaning that reached John’s fragile state was that Paul was going to _leave_ him. John didn’t want to be alone, never did. And oh, it was happening again, the transfiguration of a frothing wild beast into a soppy creature with thin flesh. On a good day, it was too much for him to take, the mystery of his own moods, movements and nakedness. On a bad day he felt like weeping tears that hurt. Today, he understood that there was vulnerability, and then there was whatever wrenching sensation was splitting along his ribs with the thought of being left helpless and alone. It was too familiar to him.

This wasn’t like dropping down, where his skin went cold and his muscles ached, but it was close. Panic dug its fingernails into his brain, finding old grooves to rest in.

In this moment, the thought of Paul leaving felt overwhelming, scented too familiarly like abandonment. It was his father walking to a ship, his mother towards a car, Uncle George and Stu to their graves— every familiar howling ache stinging, without any of the catharsis of their usual play. His body felt bloodless, cold; his eyes bulged as the world narrowed to Paul, John, and a door. He wanted Paul to stop…

But John was gagged, bound. He was frozen and voiceless, just like every other time, unable to make the earth move so that anyone would stay with him.

Paul was reaching for the doorknob when a whimper vibrated around the gag. He stilled and turned back.

John couldn’t see Paul clearly, myopic as he was, could only sense his appraisement. He was probably looking for John to tap out with their code, and John might have, but he couldn’t even remember his own middle name with how far back he’d been flung into the scraped out place where his childhood pain lived. Such an unbelievably large request was unutterable, even in their Morse code.

_Stay_ , he thought. _Stay. Stay. Please stay. Stay, Paul. Stay, please. Stay, stay, stay. Stay. STAY. Stay, please, please. stay_

The knob turned and John agonized, always helpless to keep his important people near him. He shut his eyes, unable to watch, afraid he might see again the silhouette of his mother in the sunlight, that afternoon before she walked off into a drunkard’s runaway car. She had flown through the air, Nigel had said.

Flown through the air before she hit the ground.

“Shh.”

His eyes popped open, wet and wide.

Paul was sitting at his side, legs evenly crossed, one hand set on John’s calf above where he was bound. His pale fingers brushed up and down John’s leg hair and he made another soothing sound.

Paul was still here.

Shocking, consuming relief flushed his body like stepping under a waterfall, eroding his tense fear. It washed out the sharp memories, leaving only impossible softness and wonder in its place.

“D’you need to tap out?” Paul asked, gentle.

John shook his head. He didn’t want Paul to move from this spot. He didn’t want Paul moving from his side ever again. The hand on his leg didn’t stop. Paul didn’t leave.

Paul didn’t leave. He stayed.

Limbs splayed, gag still forcing his mouth open and wet, John was utterly protected and covered— he cried. He sensed Paul startling, going to stand, and he forced his drenched gaze to Paul, trying again to will him to remain.

Like before, he impossibly did. Paul sat down with a panicked face and continued to run a worried hand up and down John’s tender leg until the tears ran dry and John had washed his face clean with tremulous, stunning relief.

He had thought… he had feared… but Paul, Paul had read his eyes, had known his desire, and more than any of it, had opted to follow the arc of John’s unvoiced need. He had tended to it without knowing its gravity, and now John felt dewy all over. New and salvaged.

He let out one long breath and then his hand fidgeted against the bonds for three raps. Paul leapt up to release him. One by one, his fetters were undone, and an old blanket made by Aunty Gin was cast over him. Paul anxiously scooted closer, getting into the bed and facing John with bated breath.

A million worries filled Paul’s eyes, leaping and battling for vocalization. He was stunning in his worry, in his care for John, his synchrony, his roughness and coyness and pride. He was beautiful in his mere presence.

He had stayed. Their breath mingled still, and John trembled. 

Paul’s expression betrayed his ache for discussion, but John felt that framing it in language would be a disservice. It wasn’t what he needed now. He knew what he did need, more than anything. Before a word could pass Paul’s lips, John was speaking.

“Let me touch you,” he entreated, voice soft and thin after so much emotion.

Paul blinked, his brow furrowing even as he matched John’s soft tone. “Whatever you need, luv.”

“No,” John corrected. He didn’t mean it for whatever this thing they did after playing was. “I mean, let me touch you.” The embarrassed, intense heat in his eyes spoke volumes. Paul swallowed, gaze demurring in face of his attention.

“You mean, when we’re…” His head jerked to the side. “Y’know.”

Maybe that was the easier way out, but no. It didn’t capture the whole of John’s unfathomable self, and even softer he said. “Whenever. Whenever you like. Whenever you’d let me.”

Paul’s eyes snapped up to his, wide and— oh, heated too. John felt met halfway even as the look flitted away.

“You’re exhausted, John,” he hedged, uncertainty coloring tone. He didn’t get it. Paul didn’t get the way he tilted John’s axis, spun him so hard through depravity that he only felt clean and certain. This between them would shine too. John knew it in his bones.

Paul’s expression was guarded but porous, permeable enough that John dared to hope that it yearned. He curled in closer, noticing fear even as Paul’s eyes shifted green around his desire. John’s hand slipped down to Paul’s trousers, hovering over the button until a jagged exhale pushed through Paul’s lips. He undid the button and then the zip.

“You can tap out,” John offered, and Paul’s chin jerked. He twitched, but his hands stayed clenched. John couldn’t stop now, not with how he wanted to offer himself to Paul like a tribute. He didn’t know if he was about to be hit or if a rattling three taps would halt this runaway mess of theirs, spotlighting it for the wreck it was, but Paul still didn’t move. Slowly, with care, John eased Paul’s prick out from his pants.

John indulged in a long look. He’d always liked Paul’s dick. It was smaller than John’s, and although he always joked it was the reason Paul could cross his legs so prettily, now he just cherished the perfect way it felt in his hand. His first time holding it.

“John,” Paul whispered, eyes dark and as peeled back as John felt. “John,” he said again. The name rang oddly. He didn’t often use it in the attic, in their games.

“Shh,” John replied. “Let me touch you.”

The cut head slipped velvet against John’s thumb as he stroked over the top of it, and a shudder worked over Paul’s body as he set a gentle pace. He knew Paul had been keen earlier, and it wasn’t long before he was sucking in breath and pistoning into John’s grip.

His hand flew to his face. John’s stomach lurched with the thought that he had to cover up from seeing John’s horrible self, but instead it was just over his mouth, clapping back his grunts and soft moans even as his eyelashes fluttered and sweat slipped down his brow. The sounds echoed through John’s mind. He felt calm, crystalline, as he relished the languid twisting of Paul’s body. Dilation eclipsed hazel irises as Paul stared down, watching John watch him. John shivered. This, his greedy gift, was just as much Paul’s as his own. 

Paul’s orgasm erupted in a short muffled cry that rang sweet and high in John’s mind. He stroked Paul through it, feeling the slick, heated release tangle in the web of his fingers. When it was over John withdrew, wiping the wetness on the sheets and relishing the shine of it from the overhead light.

Finger by finger, Paul undid his grip over his mouth, eyes wide. His mouth opened, and it seemed for once John had stunned Paul instead of the other way around.

“John…” Speechless. Paul was speechless. John couldn’t stop a smile from working over his face.

Paul’s own expression eased and his gaze travelled down John’s body. He lifted his hand as if to return the favor, but John didn’t feel like getting off. Those childhood memories felt too close to him, too gentle.

“Another time,” John promised, catching Paul’s hand. That was a promise he meant to keep. For now, he lowered Paul’s hand to the bed, let the back of his hand flex against it. “Just…” _stay._ Still unutterable, but it hardly mattered. “A little longer, alright?”

Paul shifted, getting comfortable on the pillows. His eyelashes skimmed the crest of his cheek as he blinked slowly, then returned to staring at John as though by peering deeply enough he might understand him. John stared back, and it was a quiet, unremarkable connection between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> 💜 Thank you for reading~
> 
> It is possible to tap into trauma while in a scene. An attentive dom will constantly read cues and backtrack from what was discussed in a script if it means keeping the sub in a safe space. The more two know each other, the more they can understand and interpret cues. Trust, above all pursuit of pleasure. 
> 
> Do leave a comment if you feel like it. I will happily respond~💖


	7. Crushed Tabs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During "Revolver," John learns something about Paul and John business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone wondered, the vast majority of this fic was written while listening to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9K7rmxjk5RQ) on repeat for hours. Here's the [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/track/2cSRuejq6DU9U6OkSmUw17?si=nDzpy8ChTHWE6ez7NDo4lQ).❣️
> 
> My stunning beta johnjie rolls along with [this wicked track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7OVZ-CgMwM&feature=youtu.be). 💜

+

John was fucking glad he had this carpet installed. The color, a shaky emerald, slithered up and down the creases of his clothes before stilling like a furry pool. He’d had a pillow when he started, a nice thing for the floor when he got sick of how high the furniture made him feel, how far away from the ground when he was disconnecting like this, but it had wandered off. Vertigo was a funny thing. The movie, he meant. Always blondes, twisty cold and pushing men off. Or did she jump? John closed his eyes, feeling the falling sensation despite how the fibers stroked and pressed against him. Confirmation of gravity.

“He’s in there,” a voice said, a little warped, a little blue. He knew who. For who. He wasn’t going to risk opening his peepers for that though. Not with cold blondes about. “I think he’s coming down… well, I hope so.”

If John went any further down, he’d hit magma. Magna. Magna carta. Wasn’t there a new king?

“I’ll take it from here, thanks, luv. We’ll be out for tea soon as we’re ready.”

John’s eyes opened in a flash. Something old but new in this setting. A new king.

“All right, John?” Paul sat down heavily on the cushion that had escaped John’s grasp some time ago. Traitor, he thought, though he could understand the pleasure of being under Paul better than most.

“More leftward, I think,” he admitted. He slunk closer, stretching his neck as he wiggled against the currents of carpet. He rolled his cheek against the brown smelling shoe and looked up at Paul, unsurprised to find his features morphing just that bit before settling again.

“All right, Paul?” John cooed.

Paul moved his foot away, pulling out a cigarette and looking to the side. Half his face vanished, but what was left was easy enough to look at. He’d kept the better part of his nose, in John’s opinion.

“Mach fucking schau, Macca,” John said, curling closer.

“You think I’m touching you, you’re daft,” said Paul easily. Flakes drifted off his cigarette. They didn’t dance the way they had last night, or earlier today, he meant. John really was coming down.

“Magna Carta.”

Paul huffed a dry laugh, the full of his face returned. “Exactly. You’re way too dehydrated. Have you had anything to drink?"

John smacked his lips, finally sensing that it was a bit of a desert in his mouth. The room flickered, half morphing, but the heat of green sand barely licked his face.

What did Paul expect though, going off to Switzerland with Lady Jane and nary a postcard promising he was keeping all his worst ideas stoppered up to unleash on John later? It was beyond John to stop his mind spinning darkly in doubt with Paul absent, so John had exchanged one high for another. When it was an option, he’d always choose partnering with Paul to slip away from his mind; he gave John’s fidgety thoughts the most remarkable runaround. And John felt _better_ afterward for being a deviant. It was uncanny, occult. Really, he’d be much happier tied up somewhere, taut shape, taut cock, while Paul stroked himself watching John. That was an idea.

“What’s it matter? You’re here now, right? Just be a mate,” John groaned. “Doesn’t need to be all that.”

“Needn’t it?” Paul’s lips tugged, amused.

“Just a little help from me mate. If you see him around, ring this address. Then it’ll be tea with Cyn and sleep.” And then they could begin again. Their beautiful arcs crashing into each other, steady orbit. John wouldn’t have to blot his mind because Paul would do it for him better, and more capably.

The reminder of Cyn set a furrow in Paul’s brow, but John was coming down. He sat up at last. Paul watched him warily, thighs bunching as John scooted closer. That was just the place. He slumped forward, settling on one of Paul’s thighs before he could move it, pushing one leg behind Paul’s arse and the other in between the gap of legs.

Paul grunted as John settled and rocked against the muscle he found. Paul’s hand, still holding the cigarette, came up to catch John’s lower back, giving him better maneuverability to rock again. Paul switched the light to his other hand.

“Don’t you have Cyn for this?” Paul asked, eyes dark as they flickered to the door. The question was a real one; it strayed near the edges of something John had been ignoring within himself, was hoping Paul would ignore too. It was tinged with “what the hell are we doing?”— except John didn’t know. He only knew it was good. He knew that if Paul was leading them it wouldn’t turn to rot, because Paul could take control of it and guide it to success the way he did everything. King Midas, without the burn. And besides…

“I’ve got you too. You’re letting me, aren’t you?” John asked, unable to keep a smile from spreading as Paul’s free hand fell to John’s thigh, flexed there. It was quiet for a moment, punctuated by John’s little grunts as he rocked slowly against Paul, building a burn in his lower stomach.

Paul capitulated, perching the smoke between his lips and letting fingers trace John’s trouser seam. “You know you need three days off before we do anything more, aye?”

John whined a little. He knew: dehydration, after-effects. Whatever Paul was on, his hard line. John had meant to time his stopping so he’d be good and ready, it was just… “I lost track of the days a little,” he admitted.

“That’s what this stuff does,” Paul said, hand sliding ever up. “Tomorrow starts one.”

“Today is one,” John argued, letting the tips of his fingers dip inside his own pants, just for a touch.

“Today is zero,” Paul corrected, but when his fingers tangled with John’s inside his pants, John hardly cared.

+

The part that really got John was that he hadn’t even been trying to rile Paul up.

They were in the studio, trying to wring out one last burst of creativity from an album that they had already run backwards, forwards, and practically sideways with their demands on the engineers. For the final addition, John wheeled out something he and George had been sporadically tinkering with, something that Peter Fonda said that had made John shiver.

By this point all of them were a little testy, a little bottled up from too much time inside. That the fans made it impossible to sneak outside for air or a bit of lunch made it more cloistered still, but after this track it would all be finished. The drums were great, the guitar layered, and the vocals warped enough that it didn’t sound too much like himself in his own ear.

And then there was Paul. The bass was good, clean, melodic… but John craved the heavier rhythm. He wanted the floors moving and undulating in his ears the same way he felt the tiled ocean during a trip.

They were listening to the twelfth playback and John was growing irritated. He snapped more than suggested, “Why not George do it? I think he has a better idea about what we’re going for.”

The silence crashed into the studio. A pin could drop in China and John would hear it.

Paul glowered. “Maybe if you could give me a better idea of what you meant by ‘make the tiles move.’”

“If George did it, I wouldn’t have to say more, would I?” John snipped back. “He understands it.”

“I know it’s your track, but it’s just music, John,” Paul said, condescending. “There’s nothing in it that I haven’t seen.”

John let a crawling smirk take his face, knowing his own meanness, and revelling in its familiar wrap around his voice. “Mate, you haven’t a fucking clue. Compared to us three, you’re watching shadows on a cave wall.”

Paul’s neck bulged, color brimming on his face. Anger distorted his lips, but whatever recourse he intended was cut short.

George Martin leaned forward in his seat. “It might be a good idea to have someone else give it a try.” John grinned. Probably he was just looking forward to the record being done, but it was rare he sided against Paul on such matters. They’d even broken their perfectionist producer with this album.

Paul glared, betrayed. He hadn’t any right to be, not after taking George’s solo in the opening track. Not that John didn’t agree that it was the right choice, what with how George’d been mucking it up. It made sense to him that whoever could play the part should. Paul had argued such, and now it was coming full circle to knock his legs out from under him. Couldn’t be a nice feeling, but then, being in a band wasn’t always that, certainly. They were professional musicians now, Paul had said, and they wouldn’t be releasing George’s poor solo or, ironically, Paul’s untitulating bass anymore.

Ringo startled when the door slammed open and Paul stormed out, stomping down the stairs, throwing the door open into the empty hallway. Fans or no, John hoped he pissed off somewhere until they finished the album.

Ringo let out a shaky breath. George stared at the door.

John crossed his arms, resolute. He gestured to the studio, “Well then. We haven’t got all night.”

+

John swept out of EMI. It was late now, dark skied and poorly lit. He thought about taking out his goggles but figured better. He only needed to find his car and there weren’t many Rolls parked out this late. Whatever studio hangers-on had all nipped home for the night, or were too stupid to realize they parked anywhere but the front. He went unharrassed as he slipped through the night.

He blinked when he spied his car. Between the dimness and the dark jumper, John almost missed him, but there, leaning long lines against his car, was Paul. He had a cigarette smoldering red at the tip, and he didn’t move as John approached.

“Christ, Paul, you didn’t half give me a fright. Don’t get started, it’s too bloody late to argue about it, the track’s been laid,” John said, fishing for his keys. “You can yell about it tomorrow. Or, you know, never.”

“Tomorrow, you’re going to come by mine at four o’clock,” Paul said. Whatever red flash of anger that had stolen his face in the studio had cooled in the night air. Now, only the ember of the cigarette lent warmth to his plasticine face.

John paused in rummaging through his pockets. “Am I?” he asked, uninterested. “What for? Nothing you can say I haven’t heard before, and whatever you play is the same.” He expected something from the jab at staleness, but received nothing. In fact, Paul was letting the silence stretch out into a length that made John twitch.

“What?” John demanded.

When Paul rejoined, it was quietly. “You’re going to prove you’re properly sorry to me. That’s what you’ll do.”

John snorted. Fat chance of that. John wasn’t the least bit sorry… but also, Paul’s steadiness, the way he said _prove…_ Well, John did have time for those kinds of activities. Those were never stale. His pride waged war for a moment, but was trounced thoroughly by his own cunning. It seemed that Paul was determined to be in a snit about this, and John could either bear his icy silence for a few days or he could let Paul work off a little spare frustration in a way that benefitted them both. If he thought John was sorry, all the better for it. John would just cut him down if he got too high and mighty about it. There were ways of that.

He smiled, lending sweetness to his tone and straying a bit closer. “Aye? How could I prove that to you?”

Paul pushed off the car and stepped into his space, hand coming to take John’s jaw in a way that always made him feel shorter.

Paul’s smile was equally saccharine, but iced over, like peppermint. “On your knees. With your hands tied behind you so you don’t get any ideas. I’ll keep mine right here.” His grip tightened on John’s cheeks.

The image rushed John and he had to take a deep breath. Fuck, leave his knees all battered and worn. Using him like any easy hole for cock. More riling still was that Paul didn’t really take from John sexually, even though he had asked Paul to. It was still letting with him. Letting John touch him, bring him off, twisting himself to completion. This though— this was all having. John shivered. He had suspected Paul was capable of such decadent pleasure but hadn’t yet garnered such a treat until now. Oh, things were coming up for them, up and up.

“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, I could do that. Would like to, I mean, to show how sorry I am.” Paul’s thumb traced over his chin and John parted his lips slightly. Paul would see this view later, but so much lower. He wondered whether Paul would have him now if he slinked down onto the concrete and nuzzled into Paul’s zipper. His fantasy was too arresting and made him slow. The next moment, Paul patted his cheek and stepped back.

“There’s a good lad.” With that, he turned and walked down the street, to Cavendish.

John stared after him, conscious of his own boiling blood and his half hard prick.

Fuck. How was he supposed to sleep now?

+

Warm, calloused hands drew silk over and under John’s wrists. The length tightened and he rolled his shoulders, flexing against the uncomfortable pressure of his arms forced behind him. A finger trailed the soft skin of his inner wrist before retreating.

Blinds were drawn over the window in the attic, blocking out most of the late sunlight and casting a dusky, dark hue to their doings. Shadows didn’t mask the twist painting Paul’s brow when he stepped around in front of John. Yesterday he had been steel, but time had tempered him slightly, made him think over what they were doing. Luckily, Paul didn’t go so far as to suggest they do something wasteful, like _stop,_ when this was all that John had been thinking about since last night. He’d eaten French toast half stiff, that’s how inescapably turned around Paul made him. The low burn of arousal was worth every fidget and curious glance from Cyn.

It was better than John had imagined at this angle, pain already creeping into his kneecaps. He’d be bruised along the legs after this, like any easy bird, any French or Hamburg girl with dirty stockings. He let his head loll, curling into the thought, presenting himself wanton.

“Can you remember how you’re meant to tap out?” Paul queried above him, looking down the open curve of his neck.

“Use my teeth, shall I?” John snapped at the air in example. It hardly did anything for Paul’s complexion, though his lip did twist up in humor, mangling the scar that lived there now.

Paul’s hand fell to the line of John’s jaw, same as last night. “That’s not it, is it?”

John looked up at him, licking his lips. There was so much more to tease, but John wanted things started before Paul could have second thoughts and realize the absurdity of what they were about to engage in, the queerness that was already twisting John’s belly, shameful and arousing as he fidgeted. Hands were one thing, but to lave Paul with his mouth delved deeper into this unexpressed, murky longing tugging at his navel. He pushed it aside.

“Just wink twice, we said, right? Nothing to worry about. Just… just watch, aye?” He mumbled the last part. Yes, watch John’s face, watch him bob and choke.

Paul’s hand released and slunk to his hip, posture easy. Seeing him slip into character was unlike anything else, the easy possession of his body that John had never had. Even in the studio, his hands would slink thoughtlessly into his pants, thumbs hooking on the waist of his trousers even as he was explaining some solo. It wasn’t anything he had to put on, but when he did put it on consciously it was a show. And it was only for John.

Now, his hands traced the leather of his belt, long fingers meeting the buckle and undoing it. John had to swallow back a sudden rush of saliva. His throat felt wet and dry at the same time. The thought _this is mad, you’re daft_ slunk around his mind, but he was riding the wave of perversity and that only sent him higher, had him leaning closer instead of laughing or running away as Paul took out his prick and balls. He took himself in hand, gave himself a single stroke.

“You’ll certainly give it your best, won’t you?” Paul asked. John’s lips parted impatiently, but Paul shook his head. “Mouth’s not full yet, is it?”

He gave a contrite look and answered, “Do me absolute best, sir.”

Paul scoffed. He had a right, too. John’s first, this was. It couldn’t be that different from cunt though, he reasoned. Worst case scenario, Paul would laugh at him and, John thought with a shudder, he might even get off on that, the way things had been going. Unfathomable what jerked John hot these days. But it was alright with Paul here, leading him to such obscene waters. Maybe he could impress Paul after all. He’d go slow. Many an eager girl had gagged in their eagerness for John’s prick, and it wouldn’t do to embarrass himself just yet. He could work up to that.

“You’ll fucking have to, if you want to prove you’re properly sorry,” Paul prompted. “Get on with it.”

John resisted rolling his eyes. He still wasn’t sorry. But, all things considered, he thought, rocking on his knees to relish the sharp ache, he was getting off pretty well. Would get off pretty well, if he could please Paul enough.

With that in mind, John didn’t need more of an invitation. He bent to take the tip of Paul’s prick in his mouth, relishing the muskiness. It was a little salty, all pent-up scent and taste from being in Paul’s pants all day. Filthy, really.

He inhaled deeply, Paul echoing the sound as he explored lower. Paul, while not the largest, had never seemed bigger as John took most of him in his mouth. The size started to adjust and settle in his mouth, the shape more familiar as his tongue traced a vein. Paul hardened as he did, swelling in John’s mouth. John didn’t know if it was eagerness or Paul’s size that caused his breath to sound loud through his nose as he withdrew a little, then took the hot length back in again.

John startled when a hand settled on his cheek, looking up to catch Paul’s dark eyes, pupils expanding even as he watched.

“That’s it, pet. You’re not bollocksing it completely. Not yet.” In retaliation, John let the tip slip from his mouth and leaned down to tongue the thin warm skin of Paul’s balls until he knew just how heavy either rested on his tongue. He returned to Paul’s prick, grazing his teeth hard enough to be pain and pleasure, which earned him a soft tap against his face. _Careful, with all this in my mouth…_ John thought, but he would never. Having finally had a taste of it, he knew now what a waste that would be.

He started in with vigor now, recalling all the nasty tricks and twists that Cyn and hordes more had honed to make John squirm. Paul kept the ire he felt well under control like everything else, but John meant to make him lose control, meant to undo him enough to earn the rough treatment he’d been promised. He twisted his tongue around the head, toying around the slit until Paul gasped and the smallest bitterness bloomed over his tongue. It wasn’t enough. He bobbed his head, letting Paul bump into the soft back of his throat as water sprang into his eyes, forcing himself down.

Paul was breathing harder above him. “God, look at you, right slobbering mess.”

John moaned, vibrating his throat. It was true; there was spit streaking John’s chin, dripping into the thick of Paul’s pubic hair. Like cunt, this was a messy business, made all the more so because John couldn’t grip Paul’s thighs for leverage. His arms behind him ached in tandem with his neck, which felt the weight of his own head as he sucked at Paul. It had nothing on the ache of his own prick though, steady and throbbing through his pants.

He was relieved when Paul’s hand came down and settled in his hair, thumb brushing his ear then coming to rest on his hairline. Looking up through watery eyes revealed Paul’s face almost wild, unrestrained, as he cradled John’s head in his hand, his whole world, really. John whined, and it made Paul thrust forward. He did it again, carefully, before losing reserve and pistoning forward in earnest, setting a tempo that was all his own pleasure.

Paul’s eyes never left John, never looked away from the horrid way John grunted and gasped and sucked heaving breaths through his nose. God, it was perfect, perfect the way John could be this for him. John could turn himself wretched and horrid and Paul still touched and petted him, made use of him. 

Paul’s pull was hypnotic, encompassing and John lost himself to it, blending with the tension of his aching limbs. He was soaring, but when Paul spoke it resonated in his chest.

“Your pretty head is so far up your own arse,” Paul growled, voice a collage of raspy Hamburg nights. “You think I don’t know your music? You think I’m fucking holes in cave walls? It’s our music and no one, certainly not George, no one gets to say what I do with our music. That’s Paul and John business. You understand?”

With the light slanting through, choking on cock, John thought he might actually. They might have used this month off to pursue their own things, get a break from living in the back of each other’s pocket and writing eye to eye in hotel rooms. They might had made breathing space and drifted… but they hadn’t. They had tangled around each other more intricately, knotwork that John didn’t know how or want to undo. Every word and note was written with or for the other and god, if Paul didn’t understand his music, then no one did. The way Paul could hold his music’s core and fill in the blanks of his verse took something too near telepathy for John not to ache for it. That track too was Lennon/McCartney, even without Paul there, because that’s what they’d become. All mixed up in each other, oil on oil, indiffusible. Irreplaceable. PaulandJohnandJohnandPaul.

Water lined his eyes. He was contrite. He hadn’t understood before. It was so clear now, as he released all tension in his neck and allowed himself to be pulled deep into Paul’s pubic bone, hair brushing over John’s sodden cheeks. Our music.

“You understand?” Paul asked again and John keened, moaning slick and choked off sounds until Paul’s thumb ran over his hairline. “That’s it, you’re all right.”

More than. John was aching desperately. He wanted nothing more than to bring his hands down and fiddle with himself but they were trapped behind him, a reminder that the pleasure was not for him. He shuffled forward, savouring each incremental brush of his pants over his swollen prick as Paul dragged in and out, taking his fill. 

Time passed out of comprehension for John. His world narrowed down to breath, the salty tinge on his tongue, and dark eyes looking down, nailing him with their weight and watching every flicker, every flutter of his lashes.

He almost fell over when Paul pulled out, hand on the base of his prick. John keened at the loss. Distantly he remembered they’d talked about it and John had hedged. He regretted it something terrible now, regretted not being the repository.

Never looking away, Paul cranked his hand down the slickness of John’s saliva coating him and moaned, his mouth dropping open to reveal a chipped tooth. Panting, sweat darkening under the arms of his shirt, he looked a picture. Primal. And then, hot sticky warmth landed on John’s chest in jerks and spasms, and he could only whine as it slid down towards his stomach.

“Christ, the look of you,” Paul murmured, a mirror thought, and John felt the flush take his chest as he wiggled. His knees were numb by now, the pain a blissful ache in his mind.

Paul gripped the flesh of John’s bicep, kneading the muscle as he elevated him up and towards the bed. John hit the mattress sideways, laying there and showing the long side of himself, his trapped arms to Paul whose hands slipped over John’s knees. They were red now, would bloom blue later.

“No shorts for you,” Paul said, letting his hand wander up, closer to where John needed him. “Keep these between us, aye? Don’t be bragging.” One-side of John’s underwear was tugged down, leaving him lopsided, half exposed, until Paul yanked the other as well.

His prick dragged sideways, head dropping onto the bed with the weight of his pending release. Paul dragged a cool finger from the top to bottom of it, watching it drool as John shuddered. His balls felt swollen, all too ready.

“You on your knees, mouth open, just waiting for me,” Paul said, half to himself. “Obscene. Just obscene. And then, covered with me spunk, nipples hard.” He brusquely thumbed one of John’s nipples, sending him moaning. “God. It’s how you should be though. When you act that way. You hardly deserve it… but I suppose you earned it. You choked so well on me.”

Yes, please, John was so tight, so high, he just needed—

“Come on for me, then.”

He was off, the tension burst, he was exploding. It shot wet and hot from him and he had to shut his eyes for a moment as it pooled against his stomach and on the bed.

When he opened them again he saw Paul’s shocked face, his hand half-extended to John’s prick. On its way to help him off, but that hadn’t been what he needed. All John needed was the word. John had suspected and feared such, and now Paul knew it too. His eyes rose and met John’s, surprise and pleasure glinting in his eyes.

John was horrifically embarrassed, but it was wiped away as Paul set a hand on his cheek. “God, you were so ready for me, so eager. Didn’t even need a touch, you just went off. I said the word and it was like a rocket. God,” Paul uttered, and it was hard to feel a wretch with Paul looking as pleased as when the album had taken just the shape he wanted. John felt himself a precious relic, even with the come turning crusty on his skin.

Paul’s hands were gentle now undoing the loops of silk around his wrists, stretching the ligaments as he went. Whatever tense anger he’d held had been washed away by John’s contrition. The words wouldn’t pass John’s lips, probably never could, but in this moment it was tacit between them. 

Paul held John’s larger hands in his own, turning them over to check the color of his fingernails. Strange, he thought, not for the first time, that those smaller hands could make John contained and minuscule beneath them. It was the owner, he knew, Paul’s skill. It made it worth all the exposure to touch Paul, and for this touch in return—

The sharp ring of the phone interrupted his thoughts. The pleasurable shiver of his skin turned to one of unease as Paul stood to pick the receiver from its hook. The outside world rapping on the window. Paul leant it on his ear, stuffing himself back in his pants and giving John a wink. He nodded to the water on the bedstead.

John rolled his eyes and retrieved the glass, taking a few sips before rolling it between his hands. The calls were coming more often as they wound down on the recording of the record, and what a record it was. How much lunacy and fun they’d had, being able to really dig into the meat of music as sound. They were finally big enough that EMI would let them do anything now. After putting a condom over a mic and dropping it in a milk jug, John would really have to wrack his brain for more. Maybe that idea of dangling himself from the ceiling to sing? That would have to wait for a later session, this one was complete as of yesterday, and with it, their leisure time. Brian was already setting up the details for the upcoming tour, recording music videos, the odd television appearance… a whole manner of things John couldn’t bring himself to give two shits about.

“Yeah, 7:00 is all right.” He glanced at John, grinning a little. “Think he’s dropping off for a kip, but I’ll make sure he’s there. Yeah, uh-huh. Bye Bri.”

Paul hung up, running a hand through his damp hair before looking at John. Seeming to decide he hadn’t been properly seen to, he picked up Gin’s blanket from the bottom of the bed.

“You need to wash that from time to time, Macca,” John grumbled, voice scratchy. The fabric settled over him, musty.

Paul shrugged, laying on his side. He did get lazy when Jane was away. Proper bachelor pad he’d made Cavendish, not that John cared. The fewer reminders of Jane the better.

“Seems like the touring’s all fixed up,” Paul said. He was calmer now that he’d worked out his pent up anger and all that remained was looseness, easy tactility. John liked that it worked for both of them. Their exchange could tease out their problems so John could see all facets, the beauty in even their rows. The touring, on the other hand…

John started picking at the itchy, drying come streaked down his stomach. Getting flabbier these days, he mused, pinching a bit of fat. It was all right to be a hedonist when it was Paul doing him up and down, but he really ought to stop with the truffles. Could hardly be appetizing for Paul.

“You better stop or I’ll do you up again,” Paul said, lips quirked. “All that pinching gives me ideas.” John surrendered the grip on his flesh and shivered, calmer now. He didn’t get it, but Paul’s unabashed pleasure in his body was a source of unending relief for him. Unaware of his thoughts, Paul stretched out a little. “And then we’ll spend the rest of our days locked up here and miss the meeting with Bri, and the whole tour too. Have to get stand-ins for both of us,” he mused.

“Doesn’t sound too bad to me,” John murmured, “Maybe Jimmy has a couple of brothers.”

Paul snorted. “Aye, that’d be a sight. But I’d miss it, y’know? Touring.”

John groaned, less subtly than he’d meant to. He knew. Even drowned by lights and sound, Paul lit up when he was performing. He loved the visibility, but for John performing only made him feel bewildered at best and vanishing at worst. It was easier with Paul keeping him held in place, proving him opaque with each twisting of his skin and loop around his ankle. But being on tour meant long stretches of time where they were too busy or too exhausted to get up to much of anything. He didn’t like it, the looking and not touching. They’d have a whole tour season to contend with too, longer than their last.

“You’d miss it too, you know?” Paul said, just the other side of patronizing. “You’d miss going around and showing off for the interviewers, padding your wallet—”

“The Queen’s, you mean,” John corrected. “And the interviewers hardly ask anything interesting anyway. Just about our hair, what we’ll do when everything goes to shite.”

“More of this, maybe,” Paul said, and John knew he was joking but it sounded like such a precious promise to his ears.

It made him want to buy an island. They’d move Cavendish there, brick by brick, and live in tropical depravity. Paul’s words were sweet like a letter and John, for a moment, let himself be whisked off his feet by them.

“Better than anything else,” John cooed. He started tilting forward on an instinct he didn’t realize until he caught Paul’s wide eyes. He was about to—

Fuck.

He dropped his head into the gap between their pillows, burying it there and blowing raspberries into the linen. God, this game between them had grown out of all proportions. His body was reacting in a whole new strange way. Getting off and releasing pressure was one thing, but this embarrassing curling feeling in his stomach was something else. The sensation was impossible to parse into category. John just knew it was all too good, and a bloke couldn’t help but get overwhelmed, confused by that. Just because he wanted to be anything for Paul didn’t mean that he…

Paul let out a fluttery, nervous laugh, interrupting his inner spiral. “You’re daft, you are,” he uttered, tone hoarse. His hand rested on John’s shoulder but didn’t travel the scape of his skin as it usually might.

John waited for Paul to make some excuse, some gesture to leave, but he didn’t. He stayed. John felt awful and horrible, but he’d be worse alone. 

He sighed into the sheets. He wanted to believe Paul that it would be alright, but some part of him knew that touring would only ruin whatever peace he’d discovered in their attic… but maybe that was better than ruining it himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> For images of Paul's lovely habit of sticking his hands down his pants, please scroll through [this post](https://fingersfallingupwards.tumblr.com/post/614401282908798976/sirringo-kreekey-sgt-paul-okay-lets-just).
> 
> Thank you all so much for the support! I really cherish every word (and meme ;) ya'll see fit to send my way! Do make a comment if you have any feelings, I'm always delighted to respond~💜


	8. Crush Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They tour. John wants and Paul hesitates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta johnjie is the only reason anyone (including me) is seeing the next three chapters. Thanks for all the pushes ;)
> 
> Tags are updated and John Lennon's messed up head deserves it's own line LBR

+

John filched another drink from the trays traversing their latest unneeded soiree, nodding lazily with the milquetoast faces surrounding him. Even after taking America, Brian kept encouraging them to rub hands and grease fingers - John hardly saw the point, not even for a good time these days. Whatever bigness that the Beatles had was a frenzy-inducing thing when introduced to the normal population, and he was so tired of the expectant panting.

Warmth ghosted at his side and he caught Paul’s profile, jaw bristling with the lateness of the night, as he pretended to nod along with whatever whoever was saying. John wasn’t tired of _all_ panting, he supposed.

He had to admit touring hadn’t been quite the ruinous event he suspected. Playing live always had its moments and its perversities, though a different flavor lately. Like earlier tonight, standing across from Paul, making eyes, making faces. Nothing that couldn’t be denied, mind.

And, earlier this week. George had been gearing up for the last number when Paul leaned over. His voice was hidden in John’s hair as he shouted, out of breath, “Them all out there, they haven’t a clue about what you really like, do they?”

John had looked out at the audience, the screaming, done-up girls, watching them see him, lust over him, panting desperately without a clue about what he was really like— how he looked on his knees. His adrenaline, already surging, sent a telegram to his dick and he was instantly rock hard.

He was in a fever for the last song, trying to tilt away from the audience, his stiffy on show, and then he had to line it up with Paul when the time came for the harmonies. The thrill of seeing Paul see him.

He must have made some sound remembering this, because Paul’s elbow dug into his ribs.

“Quite,” John said, nonplussed. The heads in their circle bobbed in agreement, would have no matter what he said; that’s just how big they were now. Beyond reproach. Paul rolled his eyes subtly enough that only John would realize, before making his excuses and departing the group.

John watched him walk away, sleek suit flashing, and slipped back into the memory. After all that riling on stage, somehow, someway, Paul had managed them into a spare room closet and John had found release in restraints rigged from their belts crossing his chest, tight over his nipples. Such precious moments kept things bearable when the crowds were too much. 

The release was good, really good sometimes, with all its frantic secretiveness, but it lacked the privacy and, John dared say, artistry their attic allowed. On tour, the sporadic meetings felt like a grim maintenance, something indulged in to bolster John’s mood as they ran through the motions all over the world. He wanted the full brunt of Paul’s attention, not just what he scraped up from the bottom of his reserve. That wasn’t enough now, after all they’d done. John wanted the narrow focus only Paul’s twisty mind could manage, the instant and utter incineration.

The touring couldn’t end soon enough, in his opinion. He peered across the crowd for Paul’s dark head, thinking he might pry some more attention from him and ease the hungry dissatisfaction building in his stomach.

He found him, and started forward to see if spilling his drink on a lady might garner a heated glance, or better. Surely it wouldn’t take much with how bored Paul seemed earlier, he needed an outlet, poor lad — except, Paul wasn’t alone.

There was a girl. Some young and tarty German girl, over-done up but pretty. She teetered atop her heels, but the wobble lent a soft foalishness to her gait that John admitted was attractive. His problem wasn’t that she was a cracker— his problem was how Paul arched over her. He loomed in that pretty, predatory way of his, invading her space and making it his. It was a way about him that made John’s throat go dry; but now it was being done for that tart in the corner.

John knew there would be girls. He knew that on tour Paul would reach for the warm femininity rushing the sides of their stage as he always had. Even if John had offered himself, had said _whenever you like_ that didn’t make his offering the same as a bird’s cunt. It wasn’t like Paul could rock up into John the same way…

Except John had been thinking just that lately, had been thinking of Brian drunk and red-faced in Barcelona answering all of John’s impish queries. It hadn’t been with a purpose; he hadn’t known all the towers and spires that would be erected between him and Paul. The erotic heights so dizzying in their elevation that John would even consider that puncturing, undoable, to take Paul fully within him…

John finished his drink in one long pull. He hadn’t been able to mouth the impulse, nor maneuver their position for it. He’d only thought of it, fantasized a little in the hours that weren’t dedicated to steady worship of Paul’s hands. Now his stomach felt low and twisty. Even that offering might not be enough, could not compare to the rightness of a woman.

It didn’t have to, he reminded himself. Clearly Paul wanted to keep appearances. He was still John’s where it counted. John should be fishing now too, finding something blonde and too-myopic to see the vague unhappiness lining his face. If Paul was having veal and cake, John would follow form.

They were on tour, after all.

+

Greta was pale, and over-done as well, just thick enough to boast a front and rear enough to grip. She looked at him through lashes blown big and black by mascara, but he knew from experience it was hardly as soft as the natural things.

“Come on, dear Gretty,” John said, trying to get Paul out of his mind and get into the way she got onto her knees as he sat on the bed. He knew now that keeping upright would ache fiercely if he stood before her. The tactile memory of that familiarity made him unaccountably hot, considering Paul was nowhere near. In a different hotel room getting off on some other bird, calling her good…

John refocused. Glinda or whatever. She pulled his pants down, popped his half-hard member clean out. She had to brush her hair to one side of her neck to lean down proper and take him in.

John looked on, apathetic. He knew the release was going to be less. It couldn’t possibly compare to where he’d been; cliffs and edges, the red side of Jupiter. Everything normal had dropped down levels by comparison. His tolerance was too high for the depraved these days, but it would still be a good, simple release. She was attractive, and keen in working him up, not too quick.

After a time, he frowned. Usually he’d be gripping himself to stave off the fun ending too early by this point, but it wasn’t doing it for him quite the same as it usually would. Actually, he was rather plateauing… That wouldn’t do. He jerked into her mouth, relishing the way it took her aback, startled her into giving her absolute best again. It built more as he invested in touching her, petting her face, murmuring the odd compliment about her looks. Even as much as the orgasm built, it never got close to the edge.

Now even higher, he was plateauing again. Horrified, he looked down at his prick in betrayal. This never used to be such labor. The girl was getting tired, jaw loose and come-hither eyes starting to drag down. He pulled her onto the bed in a fit of energy, ignoring her squeal of delight as he flipped her skirt up. He gave one quick check to confirm what he already knew —sopping and ready— before he pushed in. She groaned, hands reaching behind her as though to take hold of him. He couldn’t focus on her grasping; he was determinedly chasing a finish line that never used to move or loom on a distant point. She came once, hard and quick, but the tight clenching of her walls didn't do the trick either. He felt like weeping from the stress as he pumped and pumped into her without effect.

He couldn't do it. He needed…

Moaning, grunting, the thrust of headboard coming from the wall across from them.

Yes, that was it. His ears perked. He knew that voice, those throaty moans, all self-indulgent and encouraging in a rotten confusing mix.

The girl was pressing back into him, clearly wanting to get her fill, and he picked up the pace. The tempo was a complete match for what he heard from the wall, and he put his hand over her mouth to muffle the panting that prevented him from hearing what he needed.

Paul was giving it to her good now, those long legs providing just the leverage he needed to extract the best angle. His low hoarse groans were perfect and John drowned out the rest of the sound spectrum. He hung onto each grunt as it devolved, growing hoarser, closer.

John gasped. He was almost there too, almost there, he just needed—

“Come on, come on!” Even muffled, it was enough.

He shot into the girl, spilling himself with a cry. Below he was dimly aware of her furious hand bringing herself to a second completion, but his concentration was elsewhere, sound pulling in hard between his ears.

What was that…? He… he couldn’t get off. He had tried, had really tried, but he hadn’t been able to without—

Anxiety clenched like a vice in his throat. In the next room Paul let out a long moan, finishing himself off.

Mouth dry, John said, “Sorry luv, but I’ve got something I need to… I need to see to.”

Greta brushed her hair out of her face, her breathing still hard. She gave him a winning smile. “Oh, okay. It was fun though, no?” She started easing her way out of bed. “Is it okay if I get your autograph?”

John straightened his clothes and signed a few tickets and fan books she had in her purse while she dressed. The moment the door shut behind her John barreled into the other room through the adjoining entry. 

The girl shrieked, knocking the ashtray onto the floor.

“Christ, John!” Paul exclaimed, helping the girl pull the blankets over her.

“Enjoying your post-coital smoke, eh? Get moving, we’ve band business to discuss.”

“John,” Paul hissed.

“Nowt that I haven’t seen before,” John assured the girl. His eyes flickered to Paul, pale chest exposed, sheets pooled around his lap. “And recently too.” His lips pulled back over his teeth. He could sense the tense whiteness of Paul’s knuckles.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Paul said, voice thin. That was fine with John. He went back to his room and lit a cigarette of his own. It smelled like sex in here still, and it only reminded him of his ire. God.

Paul was still buttoning his shirt as he paced in. “John, you can’t do that,” he said. His tone pressed against the barrier of being reasonable and being angry. “You can’t just storm in when I’m…just because you feel like—” he broke off, hand flying to fill in the blanks with John’s _needs._ “That’s just not on.”

“It isn’t that,” John snapped. “Or it is, but—"

“What then?” Paul demanded.

John leaned over him, words stoppered up in the back of his throat, too ludicrous to say aloud. Of course Paul only met his eyes evenly, never took a step back.

“Tell me,” Paul pressed.

“I couldn’t…” He looked to the side. “I couldn’t get off.”

“That’s, uh. John, that isn’t really the sort of thing… unless, is it the clap again? Cause Mal would be better to help—”

“No! I mean, I couldn’t get off without…” His face glowed, flush with anger and embarrassment. “Without your say so,” he muttered.

Peripherally, he caught Paul’s blink, his long stupid lashes pulling wide in surprise. “When I said—”

“When you said,” John spat. He knew what Paul said, could play back every valley and dip of his order like he was double tracking it. John had rotated it on the record table of his mind when whacking off, and even sometimes with Cyn, just for an extra kick…

But it had transfigured somewhere along the way. Between surrendering himself and his orgasm to Paul, his climax had left his hands. Admitting as much to himself, he was startled to find he didn’t actually dislike it that much. As anxious as it made him, it gave him a sick kick in his stomach. An intractable sign of Paul’s ownership of that basic instinct in him. Tamed, by Paul. That embarrassment always burned hot if Paul fed into it, made it truly obscene. More than anything, John wanted Paul to take him by the throat and say _that’s how it is, luv._ He’d fall from his body. He’d really shatter then.

John stared Paul down, waiting for his reaction, but it was for nowt. Paul was sphinx-like, eyes inscrutable. Couldn’t even tell whether they were green or brown at times like these.

Paul started, his voice shaky, “Then I guess we better stop, for a while at least. Maybe it will wear off. You can’t like…”

John swallowed, a peach pit growing in his throat. The land beneath his feet vanished and his expectations were met with empty air. Right. That was one step too fucked up. Too insane. John Lennon off the track and banging his head against a fucking wall.

“’course,” he said. “Fuck, yeah, alright.”

“John,” Paul drew out the name, hand going to his face. He looked tired, weariness purpling under his eyes, but then, he couldn’t be so tired if he had time to fuck into some bird in a way he would never fuck into John. “It’ll just be for a while.”

Just for a while, until Paul didn’t own him so thoroughly. It seemed he only wanted John to a point of his choosing and was backpedaling, trying to make this an outlier. It only belied how deeply they were entangled. John felt more than ashamed and foolish; he felt angry too.

Just what was the point in giving his whole self if Paul wasn’t capable of taking it? His denial poisoned the well between them, but maybe it was always untenable. Everything else was a half-effort, since Paul couldn’t have him the way he needed to be had. John was sick of vulnerability without recompense, of Paul being ever and hideously careful.

“Right,” John spat, turning his back.

“You’re angry, after you’re the one what stormed in?” Paul asked, voice tight. “I know you’re enjoying it, but we need to have some bloody walls, John!”

“No, the whole point is no walls.” John was fishing for his shoes now. He needed to get out from under Paul’s mounting tension.

Paul laughed then, incredulous mirth that made John yank the laces tight between his hands. “You’ve had too much acid. That isn’t how anything works. There’s always walls, there’s always control.”

John’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want to be other; he was so tired of being John sometimes. Worse still, he thought Paul had been keen to it, PaulandJohnandJohnandPaul; but instead really John was nothing to no one and less than that still. The control, the one Paul meant, was different than the control John needed, and their lapse of communication ached most of all. He couldn’t handle this.

“We just need to let it cool off— Hang on, I’m bloody talking here, don’t walk away!” Paul snapped. His order, usually the word of the universe, did nothing to stop John from heading towards the door.

“Fuck off,” John roared. “Get yourself something else to lord over. I’m finished.”

“Me? I’m the one trying to hold everything together! You’re passed out on LSD or you need stringing up to even keep your head on straight. This bloody mess isn’t mine! I don’t need—”

John froze with his hand on the knob even as Paul sucked in a tight breath. 

“John…” Silence hovered in the room, a growing miasma between them.

He turned to glimpse Paul’s wan, stubborn face.

“What the fuck do you know about it anyway?” John asked, voice soft and cutting. “Think you’re so important and in control. Mate, you don’t even know where I go. I’m hardly in the room half the time for your prancing and posturing. I’m just using you to get there and get off, so if it’s not fucking on, then it’s not on. I don’t need you for this _. Any_ of it.”

He slammed the door on Paul and the whole rotten non-affair between them.

+

They stopped. And it was fine. John, with plenty of pent up emotion, masturbated and fucked his way through his mental block with enough mach schau to turn Koschmider on. Even with their expanded hotel spaces, he made sure Paul knew, could hear. Whose fucking mess now? Not Paul’s.

The sex was a quick fix, but the rest of it wasn’t. It never had been, really. Even with strangers in one-night-stands, he couldn’t bring himself to ask them to step on him, or let him drop somewhere low for a second and just watch with a hand on either side ready to catch him if he slipped on the steps down. He had never been equipped to ask for it, never knew the language. Paul knowing was a freak accident, a perverse chance, so there was no release of tension elsewhere. Nothing to sate it.

Now, their moments over the microphone slanted somewhere feral instead of carnal. Paul rarely looked him in the eyes, smile cast out to the fans instead. The perfect illusion of professionalism.

And if life was fucking horrible for the next month, well, it was to do with being harassed by cops, driven out of Manila, just the regular nightmare of their lives. John added his voice to the dissent against touring. He had no reason to go on with this charade. The sooner it was over and he was back in Kenwood with an LSD laced sugar cube on his tongue the better. He’d fucking had it.

On the plane back, they’d had a meeting discussing their narrow escape and Paul’s attention slanted towards John’s chin in a weary drag before he sighed and called it.

“I think we should stop too. We can’t keep on like this. After America, it’s over.”

Somehow, this surrender didn’t make John feel one jot better. Neither did being home and finding memory haunting the edges of his sugar-soaked trips. Those wispy moments of utter stability he’d reached only came into sharper focus under the lens of chemical escape and all its expansive thrashing. The sterile sweetness never covered the bitter tinge of coming down alone.

He wasn’t ready, none of them were, for Brian’s words, his pale, bloodless lips mouthing them with a tremor. He hadn’t the time to turn it into sternness; it was all raw shock.

“Say again?” John asked, feeling untethered.

“I’m sorry, I… I thought it would be all right, but it’s grown a bit out of hand. It’s the records, the Americans are burning them. It’s to do with something you said, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Dipping into 70s John here. We've tapped some of these latent issues early and now here we are hahaha.
> 
> The next chapter is the final in the story followed by the epilogue. Thank you for your patience and support thus far❣️ It should be up in a week or so!!! I have another Beatles fic on my page if you need something to tide yourself over. It's called "i was a younger man then (now) (post hoc)!"
> 
> Do leave feedback, if you want to~ And please know that I take constructive criticism! 💜💜💜


	9. Metered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > "Do you know the difference between love and obsession?"
>> 
>> "...No."
>> 
>> "And what's the difference between obsession and desire?"
>> 
>> "I don't know."
>> 
>> — _Under Your Spell,_ Desire  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would NOT exist if not for the wonderful comments I have received which have been so thoughtful and so amazing. It reminds me of why I love this fandom!
> 
> I also would have left the Beatles fandom about... *checks watch* a month ago if it weren't for my beta Johnjie dragging me along to spiral about JP ridiculousness. There would be no resolution without them!!! Thank you dear beta!

+

Arriving in America had nothing of the majesty or conquest that had marked their previous arrivals. Instead, they were heralded by some daft hag who had foreseen all the Beatles dying in a bloody airplane crash. Crossing the uneasy Atlantic, John read his statement over and over until the rolling consonants made him nauseous. Hypocrisy is what it was. He wasn’t sorry, and he hadn’t said anything worth upsetting a nation either. Just a fucking laugh.

John knew from the moment he’d grasped the implications from Brian’s stuttering lips that this would be his undoing. A religious controversy in America. Every impish picture and sly quip that had flown from his mouth would be slanted now, reinterpreted to unveil him as a cynic intent on ruining a nation’s youth. He hated the whole mess, but it wasn’t as simple as walking away, not when they had a tour. It wasn’t just his neck resting on the media’s chopping block, either. George, Paul and Ringo each had a divot carved for them by virtue of mere nearness.

At the hotel, he stumbled through his apology, unable to stop his eyes anxiously flitting from camera to camera, wondering whether he looked at all human from the other side. The caged feeling hardly lent him any compassion in responding to their prods. _Didn’t you guess that your words would have an impact? Weren’t you aware the ears of the world have been listening all this time to your prattling for just this moment? Soft-bellied fool._

The media’s true face was finally peeking from behind the screen, and John couldn’t get out of the room sooner.

Except it wasn’t over. He soon learned that the real curse of the situation was its staying power. The press made it a fixture of their tour. Every interview, every sign damning John to hell were unwavering in their dedication to pinning him until he begged them to stop.

They just kept asking about it, and John apologized and alluded to regret over and over until his throat was dry and his pride was tatty.

In moments where John wasn’t desperately wondering why he had bothered leaving the womb, he acknowledged a feeling of distant gratitude to his bandmates, poor suckers linked to John’s train, hurtling down the track. George’s quips about not wanting those fans anyway were a balm. Ringo’s uneasy but steady forgiveness when he had a special bodyguard. And Paul— Paul who shifted forward into every mic stand when the question arose, letting John slink back. The first time, he’d watched Paul’s calm responses with slit eyes. He’d jerked himself closer to the microphone, and then away as he realized with Paul chattering on he’d use all their response time and then some. He let his back hit the chair, taking a moment’s shelter.

Paul took this cue, like any other similar damn inch given, and ran with it until there was nothing left of the ticker tape. Interview after fatal, uninteresting interview, Paul put himself forward, petting his hair, making doe eyes, and generally telling the public to fuck off. It wasn’t that John didn’t appreciate any of what they were doing, but with Paul there was more to it. There, before every reporter, was Paul standing over John, hand on the back of his neck, taking a grip where John was slipping. Paul always was the strong one, and always when John was weakest. He let it slide initially, but the longer it went and the more Paul ran with it, the more the discontent built like salt crystals on rough shores, just as numbing to the tongue. Midway through the tour de hell, John couldn’t take it.

“Piss off, Paul,” he’d hissed in the hallway after one interview. It wasn’t Paul’s business; none of John was anymore.

Paul stared John down, eyes conveying more energy than they had in weeks of radio silence and crafted expressionlessness. Their breath mingled and for a moment John thought his neck would bend… but ire and distrust kept it firmly erect.

“If they’re after one of us, they’re after all of us,” Paul said, letting his eyes fall to the place behind John’s shoulders, the tension slackening with it.

“It wasn’t your fucking quote, Paul.”

Funnily enough, John had read Paul’s quote in the magazine. It had been racially inflammatory, equally stripped of context, and given the spot above John’s, with a bloody picture of him to boot. They still picked John instead, naturally, because what would life be if it weren’t taking the piss out of John?

As if reading his mind, Paul scoffed. “Don’t be such a martyr, John.”

The religious allusion made John pale a little, even as he smiled. Yeah, the way things were going, they would make him some spectacle, wouldn’t they? Cross of his own making as well.

“Even so, I don’t need this from you anymore.” This, whatever soft touch Paul intended after the rough American treatment, was just as unneeded as the rest of what lay dormant between them.

Paul stared at John, eyes opaque, before he slipped down the hallway after the rest.

The next city, the next town, the next interview— predictable dominos falling into place— and the first wonderful question about when the bubble would burst.

Jonh knew it was coming, “ _About this controversy…”_ He still wasn’t ready for the easy way Paul leaned back in his chair, eyes forward. There was no shelter here, and John swallowed dry as he parroted some response, uttered a bit of nonsense as cameras flashed, capturing every inorganic flap of his jaw. His own alienness caused himself to tremble, his stomach curdled with overexposure. They sensed his weakness along the vibrating nibs of their pens as they scrawled, taking down more words to lengthen his noose. Sweat dropped down the side of his face and he thought he might expire beneath their gazes, turn into a rotting corpse. God.

They weren’t near their final destination by the time John reached the end of his tether. Bomb threats, the KKK… it wasn’t natural, living under a foreign gun. They’d killed one of their own already two years ago, and John wasn’t half what Jack Kennedy had been.

They were in New York City again, catching a day before Shea part two, and John was so wrapped up in his thoughts he didn’t notice Paul catch George’s elbow at check in. They had their own floor of the hotel again, but the large space only made John feel emptier.

He startled to awareness when George and Ringo peeled away to go to their own room. They didn’t have to share anymore, but they liked to unless they were getting birds. This US tour had left hardly anyone in the mood for fucking.

John stared at the back of Paul’s head as he unlatched the door, feeling hyper alert of his every casual move.

They wheeled their suitcases in, each taking a bed. Paul started to pull out suits, gripping the soft linen of his sleepwear while John stared at him, hair on end, waiting.

Catching the glance, Paul stood and hesitated a moment. The furore of their fight had been washed over by the drama of John’s latest hell, but in this moment every word of it hovered between them, damning.

“Thought you were with Ringo.” John hooked his thumb towards the door. “He’s over on the other side.”

Paul shrugged off the implication. “Needed a change, didn’t he? It’s all very tense.”

“What, this? No, it’s been a regular day at Blackpool,” John replied, teeth tight. “Any tenseness, well, that’s what the birds are for, aren’t they?

Paul’s lips twisted. “Aye, though I’d appreciate it if you went elsewhere if you mean to get one.” He tilted away, hands going to his jacket buttons and it weren’t fair, the way white shirts looked on his skin. It was maddening the way he never stopped playing mind games, never made himself the one lower. John wanted to tell him to fuck off, but the last time he’d said such, Paul had listened and merely watched as John was perforated with pens. He was always walking away, turning a cheek preemptively and freezing out every nonconforming piece of his world until it twisted itself to acquiesce to his needs. Despite that, here Paul was, _hinting._ Suspicion settled on John’s tongue.

“And here I thought you were done with this.”

“Not done. Cooling off,” Paul replied, with an arched brow that implied all the silence and stiltedness was John’s fault, and not because of what Paul had damn well said.

“And am I tepid enough for you now?” John asked, mocking.

He thought Paul might pull into himself, but he only scrunched his nose. “It’s not you, John. Even if we aren’t doing…” A gesture filled the gap. “It doesn’t mean... I’m never done with you.” His voice was so earnest that John had to look away. Half of him ached to hear it, but the other half wondered how it was possible for Paul to separate the sections of their entanglement. What would it take for him to admit that boxing off aspects didn’t work for John the same way, that he was mute and stunned before the whole heat of it all the time?

John had to shift his attention away to the walls, the bland impersonal glamour of New York, before he cut blood with his tongue and soured the night. They’d been here before, John realized. A year was all it had been, and yet…

Paul’s admittance was enough for John, and he offered. “We haven’t much to work with.”

It had never stopped Paul before, and a genuine smile spread across his lips as he held up a finger. He reached his suitcase and pulled out a few pieces of leather and a bag of studs. John was grudgingly impressed as Paul fitted the whole contraption together to reveal leather cuffs, then bowled over by the realization that he’d even brought them.

Paul seemed to realize it at the same time, eyes falling to the bits in his hand. “I packed them for the Europe leg. Never unpacked them, that’s all. You know how it is.”

John scoffed to show his disbelief, but didn’t challenge him any further. Winning the battle wasn’t worth losing the opportunity to cut his brain out of his head for a few moments.

Paul started towards John, each step slipping into his character, back straight and eyes forward. He reached John’s space and John felt Paul’s presence bearing down on him. Instead of elating him, something else churned in his stomach.

“Come on then, give us a show.” Paul said, but John looked away, breaking the force of his eye contact.

Paul hesitated a moment before extending a hand to John’s cheek, to force his head forward and take his attention—

SMACK. John batted it away, unable to explain the rapid pace of his heart, nor the precise feeling running through the rivers of his body. Audacious. It felt audacious of Paul to touch him. His jaw clenched, unyielding.

A faint crease pulled Paul’s brows, and John knew he was recalculating, trying to figure out another approach, maybe something more heavy-handed, to force John over and into that place, but John couldn’t take it.

“Stop!” he snapped, their first time using the word. Paul startled and dropped his character. Concern painted his face and he stepped away.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t…” John was blinking hard, trying to make sense of the tense roil of his stomach. Beneath his need to let go, something new was stirring, fed by the utter, unabated resentment and despair at this whole mess of a situation. He was furious now, trapped in a country that hated him and powerless in a way he’d never known before. Forced to lower himself so Paul would even _look_ at him with half the perception John ached for. He needed… he wanted…

Paul approached again, but without any swagger, angling his head to look up at John. The way he stooped lower connected the disparate emotions in John’s heart and clarified them into a need.

“I think… I think I need to be the lead this time,” he said, realizing it even as he spoke. Immediately he felt an idiot. Their brief conversation months ago returned to John’s mind, the way Paul had shrugged the idea off. He wasn’t like John who craved a chance to drop and degrade himself. Paul was, inversely, always trying to climb higher, trying to assume more airs. Every chance, every spare inch given was taken and moulded until it was another stair for Paul to climb, bringing him ever upwards to heights he hardly even knew. An unknowable hunger chasing him towards the sun.

His request was unreasonable, unfathomable, and stupid but Paul was slowly nodding his head.

“Yeah. Yeah, all right.”

John felt his eyes bulge. “Yeah?”

“Probably about time you had your turn,” he allowed. “I’ve thought it over since you mentioned it. I’m not exactly excited, mind, but it’s only right that you get a try.” He shrugged now, and it was the same as then. Oh, his easy capitulation made perfect sense now. Paul thought going low was nothing more than a tilted head, a mere laying out of flesh. He really hadn’t a clue. John comforted himself with the fact that that was soon to change. “Only be careful, John. You need to watch me, all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” John agreed quickly. Giddiness swelled in his chest. Christ, the things he could try, the things Paul would let him do to him.

“No, I’m serious. It’s not as easy as just sitting around, you need to watch.”

“I heard you the first time,” John snipped. He’d been the one to actually go under the knife. Surely he had a better idea of how much and little attention needed paying. “Anything you don’t want?”

“Don’t step on me,” Paul said instantly, and then after some thought. “And try not to leave marks someone might see.”

“Anything else?” 

Paul mulled it over. “Not much for caning since we’re performing tomorrow.”

“Pity. I think it’d look good on you,” John replied, and, feeling daring, he stepped aside and let his gaze travel down the peachy slope of Paul’s arse before meeting his eyes. Energy hummed between them, a tenseness. John hadn’t said that he’d thought of it before, but somehow, from the arch of Paul’s brow, he suspected he knew in that canny way of his. John didn’t demur, and a slight flush crested over Paul’s neck. Embarrassment, or…

“No beating at all, thanks,” Paul said at length, voice just a tad hoarser. Spoilsport. John almost rolled his eyes, but he knew that Paul’s particulars were to be honored to the word. This wasn’t the space to break them. More than that, he almost didn’t trust himself to be as exacting and precise as Paul. Never left anything permanent, did Paul, and John felt too wound up to use his strength. He had his own methods, after all, and he’d already earned a blush.

“Okay.” John smiled, feeling it go toothy. Weren’t hard, this. “Ready?”

In the pause, Paul had regrouped and was nonchalant as he shrugged and nodded.

John would get him. Long before John learned the pleasure of bending, he had been honing a cockiness that could stun any bird. He infused firmness into his voice as he said, “Strip.”

Paul’s hands rose and started in on his buttons. They made quick work, and he shucked the white undershirt next. He eased off his slacks and socks, making eye-contact with John. John raised a brow, expectant. He smiled when Paul capitulated after a moment and stripped his underwear as well. Naked, arms relaxed at his side, Paul was all leggy contrapposto like a statue and John took his fill. He’d seen Paul naked before, but now the nude landscape was his to purview.

 _At last_ echoed along his mind, though he hardly understood where this fulfilment of expectation was coming from. His eyes tripped longest over the limp cock buried in curls. The ache he felt to touch it always astounded him and he felt a little embarrassed meeting Paul’s cool eyes, then got frustrated. It weren’t him who had anything to be embarrassed about.

John needed to concentrate.

“Kneel,” he said. Carefully, Paul lowered himself to the ground, resting on his heels. His cock lay in the valley of his thighs, soft and inviting. John approached, patting his own thighs.

“Hands here.” Paul’s fingers were quick to climb the smooth fabric of his suit pants, tracing his thighs and gripping the back of them. He set his hand on Paul’s head, remembering the way it always made him feel simpler, and petted through the thick hair while he thought. Could he ask Paul for a blowie? The thought alone had him kicking in his pants, but this position didn’t seem to be doing much to Paul. He wasn’t licking his lips or leaning forward the way John had, though his hands were clenching and unclenching over John’s thighs in a way that felt… proprietary.

John looked over his face properly and felt his stomach drop as he met Paul’s clear, self-possessed eyes. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t low, even naked and on his knees with John’s prick scant inches from his face. There was no surrender. He twisted his hands in Paul’s hair, tightening, but even that earned only a flash of annoyance across his face. 

Any enjoyment from the position drained from John and he stepped away.

Paul blinked, but lowered his hands. The picture of obedience… if only John didn’t know the glint in his eyes for what it was— patronizing indulgence.

“Get on the bed. We’ll try these cuffs, see how they do for you.”

Paul readily clambered on the bed, preemptively bringing his hands together above his head. There wasn’t a headboard, and John wasn’t interrupting their game to learn how to hitch the sheets, so while both his wrists and ankles would be bound, they would also be unattached. John knew firsthand that it was less elating than the burn of full extension, but as this was Paul’s first time he’d hardly know the difference of Mars from Jupiter. And John meant to get him there. He wanted to take Paul to that place.

He was careful and tactile in attaching the cuffs, running his fingers over the skin as he attached each one, giving a tug to reinforce how strong the material really was— he knew because he’d tested it.

With his work complete, John stepped back to survey as Paul tested the cuffs himself, tugging a little. Instead of panic or an erotic flush, he simply returned his attention to John, waiting. Even with his limbs spread, his eyes were piercing. Infuriating. 

“Can you stop looking at me like that?” John demanded, breaking the moment.

“Like what?” Paul asked.

“You know,” John growled.

Paul’s expression was annoyed now. “I really don’t. If you tell me… using your words, even?”

John’s lips twisted. It wasn’t something that he could explain. It was only that he knew the blurring haze of his own eyes, how he fell deeper and deeper into the scenario and forgot everything around him. It wasn’t meant for words, that dark elation. He had done everything Paul had done, had twisted, petted, and ordered, and yet it didn’t drag him low. Paul was not inclined to bend, and despite his half-effort, John suspected he might not know how to surrender. Something ingrained young about hard-won pride, shoulders that never collapsed. It seemed that John didn’t have the power to take him there, to ease him down low.

A sudden fear took him— maybe he couldn’t topple Paul like he thought. Maybe amid all that crawling and supplication, John wasn’t cut out to be above; he was only the type that could lower his belly to the floor. The thought revolted him, pinwheeling through the din of his own thoughts and making him even more frustrated.

He looked away to gather himself, and his attention fell on Paul’s sleek tie. Black with white flowers speckling down the slope of it. He took it in hand, feeling the slide of the material.

Paul frowned when he returned.

John started for his head, gently looping it around so that it blacked out his eyes.

“This all right?” John asked.

“ ‘Course,” Paul said, but there was a crease in his forehead. They’d never done this before, and the freshness made John hopeful.

Stepping back, John was impressed with the sordid image. Paul, nude, bound with leather wrist to ankle, those demanding, condescending eyes removed from the picture. Didn’t matter now what color they were now, did it? It steadied John, not having to work with Paul watching him.

A bit of confidence flowered in his mind and he smiled, patting Paul’s ankle.

Paul startled, drawing his legs away.

John blinked and then smirked. “Oh, you haven’t really any idea what I’m doing now, do you?”

Paul remained silent but couldn’t control his jerk as John tapped his bare knee. He squirmed, nakedness somehow more apparent. This was more like it. John went to the bedstead, picked up the hotel pen. Paul tilted his head, clever ears itching for a hint when the pen clicked. John quickly tapped him on the ribs, relishing the way he curled up and away, the bewildered twitch of his head as he tried to orient himself.

John was cleverer though, and he had the benefit of a clear mind as well. “I know you’re listening,” he said. “But if I keep talking like this then you can’t quite hear my arm moving.” He punctuated the sentence by tapping Paul’s chin, which made him recoil more. Not so above it all now, was he?

This was control, this was someone at his mercy, and there was a rush of power, an arch pleasure at finally having a grip on something in his fucked life— but then he took real notice of Paul, the way his limbs were pulled in around himself, near foetal. His chest was moving up and down quickly, but not excitedly. In fact, his withdrawn, anxious posture forced John to realize that he wasn’t in space at all, made him suspect Paul might be down, instead of low.

He fell still, pen poisonous in his grip. Why hadn’t Paul said stop if John was frightening him? No, never mind, John knew. It was all in the arrogant shrug of his shoulders at the start, the implication that this was all for John, that he reaped only tangential pleasure from having a hand on his neck. Now he was suffering through it like a stubborn bastard.

The growing pleasure left John; he felt off-kilter again. He was failing at this, and, more than that, he was unsettling the trust between them. Anxiety wrenched him and he wanted to leave, regretted ever opening his mouth. His tongue was always manufacturing a noose of his own making and now Paul was strung in it, miserable. He wanted to walk right out of New York City and into the ocean.

But… in the same way John couldn’t run when he was tied down, with Paul there, vulnerable and splayed, John couldn’t walk out of the hotel room, not like this. The sight couldn’t be entrusted to any other set of eyes, and so John would deal with it.

John set the pen down on the table, frowning with Paul’s flinch. He knelt beside the bed and softened his voice, going somewhere gentle like his childhood.

“Come on then, Paul. It’s all right.”

Paul’s lips twisted, but he didn’t utter a word. Paul had never said how scary it was when someone wasn’t speaking. God he’d fucked up, hadn’t he? This wasn’t where he wanted to take Paul. He needed to salvage this situation.

“I’m… I’m going to put my hand on your chest now, all right?”

He slowly lowered his hand, and Paul still startled, but it stopped as John kept himself there. He kept the weight steady, waiting out the nervous rabbiting of Paul’s heart.

“It’s only me, Paul. Only me.” John slid his open hand over Paul’s chest slowly, letting the warmth soak in and feeling the slight coarseness of Paul’s scant chest hair. “That’s it,” he said, repeating the gesture over and over until Paul’s breathing calmed down. “A little smooth with the rough, right?” He realized now how true it was as he chased the chill from Paul’s skin with his palm.

“Nothing to be afraid of Paul, it’s only me. You can trust me,” John crooned. Paul’s head sightlessly tilted towards him, and his neck finally slackened. John sensed it now, that Paul’s attention was drawing in on John and the situation, away from the outside world or the horror of his mind. It needn’t be scary, being spread nude and unseeing. Not with John there to escort him through the dark.

John kept the motion steady as he mapped Paul’s chest and moment by moment he seemed to uncoil. One swipe brought his hand brushing past a nipple and Paul let out a little moan.

John repeated the motion, homing in on the soft shapes Paul’s mouth moved into as the nipple beneath him hardened sweetly from the attention. Redness took his pale chest, the flush a warm contrast with the wan fear before.

“That’s good, isn’t it? It’s good to touch. I’m going to touch you more now, all right?”

He waited, stroking patiently, until Paul managed a nod.

“That’s it,” he encouraged. John’s other hand lifted, landing on the side of Paul’s clavicle and tracing the bone there. Paul barely started at it and John counted it as a success.

“Perfect Paul,” he praised.

John carefully reached out and lowered the back of his hand to Paul’s forearm, his attention honed on every breath and movement, but Paul didn’t move away anymore. John slowly dragged his hand up and down, against the grain. Paul was breathing heavier now. He flipped it and then dragged his blunt fingernails down, and that earned a jerk. John glanced down and grinned. Paul was ever so slightly harder. More than that, his body was extending now, an invitation for further touch.

“Gorgeous, just gorgeous,” he said, adding more pressure.

John withdrew and then blew a puff over the arm hair, relishing how it stiffened and stood on end. With Paul’s sight gone, every sensation must be blown to perilous heights. John could picture perfectly the dark, pleasant smallness of Paul’s world and it was hitting John now too, the way he held the whole of it in his hands. This wasn’t the control of Paul being on his knees for him, but it was absolute in an unobvious way. John felt his concentration honing, turning sharp in a way he never found outside of songwriting. Everything centered on this room, his hands, the reactive body between them. He could twist and pull and shape the mood in a way that the outside world would never allow, but here, in this moment, it was complete and utter control.

“That’s it. You’re marvelous like this, you know. All spread out and warm. No wonder so many fans want to touch you, Macca…” He returned to the stiff, overstimulated nipple, making tight circles around it, relishing the way Paul’s breath caught and when he pulled it, then rubbed a guitar calloused thumb across the top. “But they can’t, can they? Wouldn’t do for just anyone to see you all tied up, sweating and panting so nicely. This is only for me, isn’t that right?”

A bated pause, and then Paul nodded. John felt electric up his spine. He held Paul’s face, stroking his cheek under the blindfold. This was supplication, Paul slipping into that place, unabashed now. In perfect reaction, Paul’s cock filled against his supple thigh, and John noted all of this, taking it within him as momentum. The flesh of Paul’s cheek pressed warmly into his hand and he shivered, as though faintly embarrassed by the way he was leaning into the warmth and approval. John didn’t let him dwell there, didn’t let the embarrassment spoil into unease when he knew it could make him hotter.

“There it is, that pretty cock.” There was nothing to hide the way it twitched at his words and John felt vindicated. It almost figured how weak Paul was for this pure, undiluted praise. He needn’t be clever in getting it— John was ready to pour it over and watch the shake and curl of him, the way he half felt ashamed, but also raced forward in earnest pursuit of more. Hungry, hungry Paul; never sated and always looking for that next soft touch. John would give him that and more, would fill him to the brim and then top him off until he was glowing and spilling over.

It was already happening. Paul unfolded for him now, limbs twisting out, revealing longer swaths for John to stroke and lay his hands over. His grip flexed on the underside of Paul’s thigh, rotated around and Paul’s breath moved with him as he gripped the plush flesh with strength. Paul was deep under, each pant and exhale an expression of titillation as he shivered. John was taking him there.

John’s own prick was a swollen, demanding thing in his pants, but in this moment even that didn’t have a grip on him. He was in utter control of himself, maybe for the first time ever. The thrashing helplessness swelling over the weeks was met and quelled by this sudden self-knowledge. There was nothing in this small world of theirs that John didn’t own, and that included Paul. With the world shrunk Paul could finally see him, could finally understand what this was and what it meant. And he needn’t question where he stood in Paul’s world; now he was the emperor of this small universe between them but it didn’t matter who was in charge, only that it was theirs, stained with each of them.

The intensity was deeper than he thought and he fell headfirst into it. Not high, like being low, but intense. Like a sharp flame whispering around his head. He collected the pen again, feeling more certain in the use of it. He kept one hand on Paul’s thigh, chasing the swelled curve as he dragged the cold end of the pen around Paul’s stomach. The resulting cry was sweet and unselfconscious and John groaned.

“Good, that’s lovely, come on, let me see you. Show me, Paul.” John chanted along to the hymn of this energy, elated in finding purpose for his wretched mouth. His entire focus narrowed onto Paul’s body, the steady racing of his heart, the goosebumps chasing his touch.

Paul’s erection arched into his stomach, and John teased the pen over his lower belly. In a heady fit, he lowered his head, letting the edge of his fringe ghost the soft skin joining Paul’s stomach and thigh, and then John blew over the erection.

Paul screamed then, a high-pitched whine without air enough to carry and John cradled it against his chest, felt it lifting him higher as he blew again and brushed the cold side of the pen against Paul’s cock. Pre-come spilled down the side of him and John flicked the drops onto Paul’s thighs, earning another deep shudder. Without his eyes, his lips became the source of his mood and they were swollen from his teeth pulling over them, gaping in silent request for more.

He needn’t be shy with his touches, he realized, with Paul inviting them with a keenness bordering on touch-starved. The pen met the side of the wall as he buried his face in soft flesh, nose tracing a hot shivery line down to where Paul’s over-full arse flesh pooled to the side. John’s mouth opened there and he sucked the suppleness in, flicking his tongue until the skin below was slick and Paul was twisting between his teeth. He bit harder, feeling thrashing but also the piston of his hips. A dash of pain he knew would only push the pleasure higher and Paul jerked with this understanding. When he felt Paul getting desperate, he released the raised redness, teething at the sensitive edge before he let his hunger lead him back to the edges of Paul’s pubic bone.

He mouthed and nibbled at the edge of his dark curls, tasting Paul’s salt and finding it sweet and piquant. The smooth of John’s cheek rested against his twitching cock, a gentle obscene gesture that made Paul writhe. John inhaled the scent of him, burrowed into the curls and tongued every raised and soft edge of Paul until his mouth developed a cartography known unto itself. His tongue was a tool, he realized, and he experimented and noted reactions to the side of it, the tip, little flicks over the top of him. Reactions ran along his body like a piano wire, sweet music that John parsed.

He had waited so long to have Paul, for Paul to have him. This, in its leisure and tenseness, with how Paul moved and shook beneath the minutest flex of his tongue, it was more than his appetite and imagination had demanded and the excess, too, was gorgeous.

God it was so intense, so intense having this much control. He took a step back, trying to steady his mind. It was hard to stay focused with Paul laid out like that, a banquet table of saliva-slick squirms and stretching. Actually, it was just that bit familiar, the dipping of his head, the cant of his shoulders— oh, Paul knew what he was doing, he was presenting himself. John had seen it a million times before, could just picture the way his lashes would flicker up and down just so, a practiced gesture of charm. Paul loved to please, loved to earn that positive reaction, but there was no adoring public to charm, no record producers to smoothen. He was leaving every morsel of his ache and desire on display in an effort to please John. He liked to be liked.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re perfect,” John pushed. “Just stunning.”

Paul shivered, twitching out further like a sunflower to its source in eager agreement.

John wanted to show him that it wasn’t only his talent and posturing that deserved praise. This vulnerability and its unaware sensuousness was just as charming. He deserved to know that John wasn’t immune, after all that good behavior.

A quick, shocking idea raced through John’s mind and he took a heavy breath to regain himself before dropping his hands to his zipper. Paul’s head tilted, hearing the teeth of John’s slacks parting. John watched his face, completely attuned to every flicker.

He smiled as Paul’s legs shimmied in their bound position, rubbing against the underside of his swollen cock. His mouth parted, evicting little open-mouthed pants.

John pulled himself out, long overdue for his release, and stroked himself once to clue Paul in. He scanned Paul for hesitation and Paul, beautiful, languid and pale, simply stretched out further, made his posture wider, as if to make a bigger target. John’s mouth went dry at the realization.

On him.

“You’re fucking filthy. God, Paul. Could you be any greedier?”

Almost in confirmation, Paul’s tongue slipped over his lips, hungry, eager. A hearty flush suffused his cheeks, swirling around his face and neck and revealing how feverishly he needed the attention, the positive feedback.

John took himself in hand, relishing the obscene scrape of his skin over his cock, building wet and loud with pre-come. Paul was panting, open mouthed, listening to the filthy orchestra of John’s grunts and slapping skin and jerking himself up wildly in concert with it. Paul’s long thighs parted, as if in invitation to move between them—

John shot off, come spurting from his cock and drizzling over Paul, who shook and twisted with every sudden, unseen stripe over his skin. God, the look of him, with it smeared in the tensing of his muscles. Fuck. Paul was gasping now, bucking up and bobbing himself, taut cock bouncing, seeking anything from the ungiving air.

John stepped forward, hand sliding over Paul’s hip, digging into the hickey and divots from his teeth before reaching the curved bend of his cock.

“You’re perfect, you’re perfect. Give it to me, Paul. Give it all to me.” He dragged his nails up the side and then thumbed the slitted head roughly.

Paul choked and then he was off, white on white over his stomach and chest. He came harder than John had ever seen, spilled out the load on top of himself and the side of the bed until the last, desperate drops slipped meagerly into his pubic hair.

The image was decadence itself, slick sweaty skin, the glint of come. John goggled as Paul panted, riding out the high, sweet mouth open and gasping. John put his hands on Paul’s chest, couldn’t stop himself from touching and stroking him through it. He kept twisting and pulling, trying to drag more out until Paul was whining and squirming, half towards him and half-away torn between pain and too much pleasure. John relented, dragging the wet of his hand over skin and cupping the incline of his ribs until his breathing steadied. Paul had given it to him, had given him the whole of it and it left John’s head vibrating like a tuning fork with its immenseness.

After a long time, Paul’s hands started fidgeting, head looking around for John.

Right. John tucked himself back in and stepped forward. He undid the blindfold first, but Paul gasped and shut his eyes right away, squinting in the light.

“Take it slow,” John murmured, moving onto the ankle and wrist cuffs. Each were undone in turn and John reverently placed them on the side table, touching the fading warmth as he did. He took Paul’s hands between his, turning the smaller appendages between his in the same way Paul had always done. They were beautiful hands, undamaged and pale pink with the friction.

He didn’t even think before lowering his lips to kiss the open palms.

Paul made a soft sound and John met his light-adjusted eyes. They were bright and wet, stripped back and John realized they were neither color, not green or brown, only beautiful. There was something fragile there, and when John dipped his head to kiss his hands again, the levee broke and Paul started to cry.

Panic was John’s initial reaction. He scooted himself closer, trying to soothe Paul, and as he did he remembered that he had done this himself. John understood. It was overwhelming, the places he traveled to, the way he found himself bending out of the limited possibilities of this dimension into something so serving and supplicant that he existed indefinitely.

He cupped Paul’s face and hands, murmuring sweet nonsense. Paul’s nose, a little wet, brushed against his cheek, his nose, and then they were kissing. It was soft and damp, Paul’s unshaven cheek scraping over John’s, and it was communicative, like he was trying to give John something.

John stared, stunned as Paul pulled away, still hiccoughing. “John. I didn’t realize. I never realized… I’m sorry, John.”

“It’s all right.” John pet head frantically. “Nothing to get hung about.”

Paul blubbered more. He then caught sight of the stretch of his chest, his askew thighs and the slapdash spill of come lacing over his nude body. He looked shocked, a little dazed, and the tears came faster.

“I… I need to clean up,” Paul said, trying to wipe his face. His complexion was red from more than crying. Embarrassment set in like blood on fresh cream. His arms were shaking as he tried to lever himself up and John was quick to press a hand to his chest. Paul was trying to hide, trying to cover up what had happened, but he needn’t, not here.

“I’ll get it. Let me get it,” he urged. His larger hand stroked Paul’s sternum for a moment. He didn’t think he imagined Paul’s little shiver as he finally lowered himself down again, vulnerable. His trust sent a strange warmth over John as he leapt to action.

John wet a facecloth in the bathroom, wringing it out attentively so that it wouldn’t drip. Instead of handing it over, he went to the bottom of the bed and lifted Paul’s leg. They met eyes for a moment in a wordless request until Paul slackened in his grip and John chased a line of come with his towel, dissolving it. John bent his head to his work, aware of Paul’s eyes, still wet and wide, watching his every careful move. He wiped the lines over Paul’s skin until the shared mess dissolved into the towel and Paul was wet and clean. This was good work; it made John feel clean and level-headed too. A soft sound came when he reached Paul’s cock but John looked up to see him more self-aware and possessed. He didn’t say stop, so John carefully ran the towel around the base and up the length of him. John was gentler here than he knew he could be and Paul sighed in soft overstimulation.

When he looked up again, Paul’s eyes were clearer still, but the walls remained unbuilt and the supple fondness John found there was almost overwhelming. How could he stop himself from getting into the bed and curling up against such softness? They were quiet a moment, their kisses hovering between them.

“All right, Paul?” he asked, and earned a small smile.

“All right, John,” Paul whispered. He scanned John’s face. “I never realized what it was like. I thought I did but it wasn’t… it wasn’t at all the same.”

“Yeah,” John replied. “Yeah, it’s different.”

“At first I wasn’t in control,” Paul said. “But then it was that I didn’t _have_ to be in control. And I… I couldn’t remember the last time that I didn’t have to be.”

His eyes were getting wet again and John realized that behind the thorough posturing, the inimitable self-possession, he was like John. This vulnerability was beaten or bred out of them, it wasn’t sustainable in their homes. They both grew into complexes of moods and emotions that were wielded like weapons, John loudly and jaggedly, Paul in a coolness that could freeze out a room. Their fame had only exacerbated the issue by forcing them to be always on. Looking at the slack spread of him, John couldn’t remember the last time Paul had been so at ease. When had he last turned it off?

“I’m glad then.” John was so elated that he had effectively shared it with Paul, and that they had reached the same conclusions. “I’m glad you get it. I’m the same. You just let go and it isn’t scary. It’s just all right. You’re falling but it isn’t bad at all.”

Paul nodded then, head dipping down and edging close enough to meet John’s neck. His lips brushed dry there, scratchy. John’s hands ran up Paul’s forearm and then rested on the pink marks from the fetters. There usually was intimacy afterwards, but this was tinted a shade darker; it was opened-mouthed and left John gasping like all the air had left the room. He wanted to lean into it, to take as much of Paul’s lips and mouth as there was to spare, but he didn’t understand. The change between the day in Cavendish, the corrected trajectory that prevented their collision, and this matter-of-fact search of hungry tongues was too much and set his head spinning.

“Paul,” he said hoarsely. He didn’t quite know what he was asking, but Paul, incredibly, seemed to get it.

He paused his attentions, seeming embarrassed. He explained, “You probably noticed that I still get letters from Thorsten, but I didn’t tell you all of it. I did go with him to the club that night we first met.”

John zapped to attention, recalling the story Paul had laid out across the same sheets in a different room. “That lad that explained it all to you? You went with him?” Paul nodded. “What happened?”

Paul shuddered. “It was dark, a lot of bodies. People were watching in the center and there was a woman in leather… and a man licking her shoes. Everyone just watched. I didn’t want… I looked away and there was this bloke in the audience, and his eyes… they were the same as yours. The expression was the same as that time in the club.”

John was rapt, could imagine how wretched and ravenous the man must have looked, knew it like a childhood rhyme. It was revelatory to know that others craved it the same. And Paul had paid witness and seen John there.

Paul’s head jerked up and there was a fevered light to his gaze. “I knew that you would get what you wanted. You always had this way about you, a conniving.”

“I never hid it,” John said, dry throated.

Paul smiled grimly. “You never did. That’s why I knew you would get someone to stand over you and I thought… I thought, why not me? I wouldn’t do anything with the power. I would take care of you and keep you from getting too deep in.”

John almost wanted to laugh, as though this thing between them had ever been simple. Paul seemed to pick up on it.

“I couldn’t let anyone else muck it up. I couldn’t even let meself muck it up by… by wanting more, like. I just knew that if anyone were going to be it for you it had better be me.”

“Because of the band?” John asked. Despite the pleasure of Paul’s deluge there was a sting too. All along John had been fooling himself into thinking that Paul wanted more. Before the ache could set in, Paul was speaking again, shifting on the sheets.

“For a lot of reasons. I didn’t… I didn’t expect…” His mouth widened, remembering. “The way you dropped to your knees, John, when I first told you to? I’d never felt more turned on in my life. You bent for me, it was so… it was so heady, to have you, proud John, leader John, you’re still that strong teddy boy in my mind sometimes, to have you go to your knees when I said so. I’d’ve collapsed if I were standing. And it only got worse from there. More carnal. I wanted you to submit to me. It was all I could think about, like an obsession.”

“Possessive.”

Dark eyes traveled to him.

“There aren’t words for how it changed me, John. I haven’t the vocabulary for that place I went when you knelt for me. I knew that your world was mine and I was hellbent on getting you wherever you were going. I’ve never felt so focused in my life, like I could turn the world for you… and it didn’t stop either. The more we did, the stronger the obsession got.”

John’s heart was thundering in his chest, disbelief shifting under the quake of gradual elation. Desire hinged on obsession, that John well knew. Paul was supposed to be above it, controlled, but he had been following the same twisted arc as John… he had understood the whole time, even before going under. Leaned into it, even.

Paul himself looked a little wretched, having spread the whole of himself out, the darkness of his own thoughts, but John felt the bridge between their minds. He wouldn’t let Paul retract the language that was sending his head spinning.

“Back in Hamburg, I think that you wanted it to be you,” he pressed. Paul’s eyes shuttered and he pulled his head back, but there was no more hiding, no more barriers to stop John from marching up directly to that part of Paul and rapping the sides, pressing his ear up against the edge to catch the honest echo.

His thumb scraped the pink rawness of wrist and Paul’s eyes met his again. “You wanted it to be you. I think you wanted to be the one to make me submit.”

Paul squirmed as if he could escape but there was only John bearing down on him, lushly high with knowledge, and on the other side of the bed, a wall. John extended his hand down to the swell of arse and hip and circled the redness he’d left with his mouth, his bite.

“And it could have been anyone else, and they could have beaten me down to take it… but Paul, you’re the only one I’d give it up for. I’d bend for you over and over, and willingly.”

“Fuck, John.” A shudder ran over Paul’s body and the whole of his fondness, his desire, was stripped and bared on his face.

“I’ll bend and you can do all the things you’d never dream to do to a woman. I want you to do them to me. And the things you would do to a woman, I want them too. I want all of those things.” Any hesitation or latent fear was dead and buried when he was slammed with the unfiltered heat of Paul’s attention, like he was retreading a familiar path in his mind, some perilous line between possession and desire. That more than anything had John pulling himself closer.

“I know,” John whispered. “That’s what I meant when I asked ye to let me touch you.”

Paul looked infinitely worse and better for having heard this, the tremulous hope in his face met with equal regard by John. He shut his eyes and groaned. “What are we supposed to do with this? Honestly, John, what do we… how do we come back from this?”

“What’s there to get back to? It’s just John and Paul business, isn’t it?”

Paul looked wary despite John’s words, fear and suspicion swelling with helplessness in his re-opened eyes. John could see it now, his weariness. Often bursting with energy and creative drive to make John spare, Paul took everything on his plate, every musical and avant-garde opportunity, until he was glutted and mad for lack of sleep. He couldn’t unwind, only knew to chase goals, not rest on success. He spiraled the same as John, just in an opposite direction, overaction instead of inaction. This interplay between them was susceptible to his character flaws just the same, but maybe it could be a remedy for them, this irregular space outside the world.

“You don’t have to take it all on your shoulders, Paul. Mine are just as strong.” He’d proven that to himself tonight, to Paul, unknowingly to the whole world, though they’d never know what he’d unearthed about himself. He could be strong so Paul might chance being weak.

“I know.” Paul whispered.

John pressed further, thumb digging into the hickey. “We’re not stopping.”

Paul bit his lip in something between a smile and agony. He shifted in John’s grip but didn’t escape it, drawing out the pain of their bruise. “I was worried you would say that.”

John saw now that this whole scenario had grown into precisely what Paul feared. Someone _did_ have too much power over John, the band _was_ at risk… but even still, it didn’t run one way. He didn’t need to fear. This was about John needing to be low and Paul desiring control, but also about John wanting to grip something and Paul learning surrender and that it was okay to be tired, that he could take time to lean on John’s able bones. Neither above the other, only a train of boosting one set of legs up to pull the other over their heads. Mellifluous shifting power between them, and didn’t that make it all equal? Perfectly metered.

“It isn’t always about having control, is it?”

Paul glanced down, the coy gesture buying him time and making John breathe hard. “ ‘Spose not.”

“Be out of control for a while, Paul. It’s only me.” he said. It was only them.

Those words more than any other seemed to settle the fear behind Paul’s eyes and he let out a groan. John knew he’d won, and more than that, he knew that the ground gained today would never be surrendered, not by him. This shared country discovered between them would not be hidden from the sunlight, no matter how Paul froze him out. John knew him now; they would be tangled up forever. Whether it was a good or bad snarl had yet to be seen, but John wanted it to be good and clean and deviant. If that meant allowing Paul to pretend in the outside world that he wasn’t washed in obsession, John could bend for him. Would bend for him. Here it was crystal that they were the same.

He nudged his face into Paul’s, nosing against him.

Paul’s lips brushed against his chin, hand slipping from John’s to sheath between the half undone buttons of John’s shirt. His fingers rested warm over John’s heart, taking the pulse.

“Just for a little while, mind.” Paul breathed against his face.

“Of course,” John lied, and Paul let him, smiled even.

Paul breached the gap and pressed in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Thank you for reading❣️ The last epilogue chapter will be up... eventually. I also will be participating in the McLennon BB so please look forward to that~
> 
> This story was supposed to be three chapters, ending with that first proper scene in NYC. Then I was thinking about Paul giving control and here we are, an extra 30,000 words later. Thank you for indulging this.
> 
> If all these times that J & P seem to skirt the edges of a sub-drop, please read this [mini primer on the stoplight system](https://fingersfallingupwards.dreamwidth.org/1700.html) and brief nuances and awe with me for how much it would help them in their play.
> 
> As ever, leave a comment if you like (´▽`ʃƪ)♡ I will be busy tomorrow, but I WILL eagerly reply and I'm dying to know what you thought of Paul subbing~💜💜💜

**Author's Note:**

> Come bother me on [TUMBLR](https://fingersfallingupwards.tumblr.com/).


End file.
